J. J. Bell

“ I got the potty, paw."
"But ye sud be sorry, Macgreegor."
"Whit wey, paw?"
"Wis he greetin'?"
"Ay; wis he!"
John looked across at Lizzie for aid, but she was sewing diligently.
"Weel," he said, haltingly, "yer maw an' me's no' vera pleased wi' whit ye done to Wullie Thomson. It wisna fair to strike the likes o' him."
Macgregor's visage began to assume an anxious expression.
"Yer maw," continued John—"yer maw says ye canna——"
"John!" murmured Lizzie, warningly.
"Yer maw and me thinks ye canna get ony taiblet the morn."
Macgregor's under-lip shot out quivering. ”

“ CHAPTER V. "When I'm a man," observed Macgregor, leaning against the knees of his father, who was enjoying an evening pipe before the kitchen fire—"when I'm a man, I'm gaun to be a penter."
"A penter?" echoed John. "D' ye hear whit Macgreegor's sayin', Lizzie?" he inquired of his wife.
Lizzie moistened her finger and thumb, twirled the end of a thread, and inserted it into the eye of a needle ere she replied. "Whit kin' o' a penter? ”

“ John was about to lift him onto his knee, but Lizzie interposed.
"Pit on yer bunnet, Macgreegor," she said, quietly, "an' tak' the taiblet an' potty roon to Wullie Thomson. It's no' dark yet," she added, glancing out of the window.
"I'm no' wantin' to gi'e the taiblet to Wullie Thomson," sobbed the luckless youngster.
"Ye've jist to dae whit ye're tell 't" returned his mother, calmly, but not unkindly. "Ye're no' to be a tawpy noo," she went on, endeavoring to dry his eyes. "Ye're to be a man. Whit wud Wullie Thomson think if he seen ye greetin'? Eh, Macgreegor?" ”