J. J. Bell

“ See, Macgreegor, yer maw's wantin' ye."
Lizzie beckoned the boy to her. "Macgreegor, pu' up yer stockin', an' dinna screw yer face like that.... Oh, laddie, whit wey did ye gang an' mak' yer heid sae toosie? Staun' till I get yer hair to lie." She fished a comb from her pocket and used it till she had reduced the unruly locks to order. "Noo, sit doon on that chair, an' dinna stir a fit till the man's ready fur us. John!" ”

“ But yer maw wants the pictur'."
"Whit's that ye're sayin' to Macgreegor, John?" said Lizzie.
"Aw," replied her husband, turning to her, and wincing as the collar bit him, "Macgreegor an' me wis thinkin' we wis feart fur the photygrapher."
"Oh, ay," said Lizzie, with a good-humored smile. "Aweel, wee Jeannie an' me 'll no' let him hurt ye—wull we, ma doo? But whit's wrang wi' ye, John? Ye're makin' maist frichtsome faces!" ^
"It's the collar, wumman. Ye wud ha'e me to pit it on."
"It luks rale nice. Is 't a wee thing ticht?" ”

“ A lull at last occurred, and the photographer took advantage of it; and after another period of unrest, he secured a third negative, which he assured Lizzie would prove highly successful. John had expected to take the photographs away with him, but his wife informed him in a whisper that he mustn't think of such a thing. "Caybinet growps" took time. Matters having been settled, the family departed from the studio.
"Maw, wull my greengarry bunnet ha'e a rid toorie in the likeness?" inquired Macgregor. ”