“Other whiles she’ll hae a wee tin bank wi’ a bee-skep on’t, and she’ll hae’t fu’ o’ sovereigns her faither’s veesitors slip’t in her haund when they were gaun awa’, and she’ll put it on the mantelpiece and gang out. Then her paw’ll get up lauchin’ like onything to himsel’, and tak’ doon the wee bank and rattle awa’ at it, lettin’ on he’s robbin’t for a schooner o’ beer, and at that she’ll come rinnin’ in and catch him at it, and they’ll hae great fun wi’ that game. I have nae doot her faither and mither get mony a laugh at her playin’ at wee washin’s, too, and lettin’ on she’s fair trauchled aff the face o’ the earth wi’ a family o’ nine dolls, an’ three o’ them doon wi’ the hoopin’-cough. Oh! they’re no’ that bad aff for fine fun even in Skibo Castle.” VIII A SON OF THE CITY |My old friend came daundering down the street with what might have been a bag of cherries, if cherries were in season, and what I surmised were really the twopenny pies with which Jinnet and he sometimes made the Saturday evenings festive. When we met he displayed a blue hyacinth in a flower-pot. “Saw’t in a fruiterer’s window,” said he, “and took the notion. Ninepence; dod! I dinna ken hoo they mak’ them for the money. I thocht it wad please the wife, and min’ her o’ Dunoon and the Lairgs and a’ thae places that’s doon the watter in the summer-time. “Ye may say whit ye like, I’m shair they shut up a’ thae coast toons when us bonny wee Gleska buddies is no’ comin’ doon wi’ oor tin boxes, and cheerin’ them up wi’ a clog-wallop on the quay. “It’s a fine thing a flooer; no’ dear to buy at the start, and chaper to keep than a canary. It’s Nature--the Rale Oreeginal. Ninepence! And the smell o’t! Jist a fair phenomena!” “A sign of spring, Erchie,” I said; “thank heaven! the primrose is in the wood, and the buds bursting on the hedge in the country, though you and I are not there to see it.” “I daursay,” said he, “I’ll hae to mak’ a perusal doon the length o’ Yoker on the skoosh car when the floods is ower. I’m that used to them noo, as shair’s death I canna get my naitural sleep on dry nichts unless Jinnet gangs oot to the back and throws chuckies at the window, lettin’ on it’s rain and hailstanes. When I hear the gravel on the window I cod mysel’ it’s the genuine auld Caledonian climate, say my wee ‘Noo I lay me,’ and gang to sleep as balmy as a nicht polisman. “There’s a great cry the noo aboot folks comin’ frae the country and croodin’ into the toons and livin’ in slums and degenerating the bone and muscle o’ Britain wi’ eatin’ kippered herrin’ and ice-cream. Thoosands o’ them’s gaun aboot Gleska daein’ their bit turns the best way they can, and no’ kennin’, puir craturs! there’s a Commission sittin’ on them as hard’s it can.