To a distinguished member of the Church of Scotland I am indebted for an excellent story of quaint child humour, which he had from the lips of an old woman who related the story of herself:—­When a girl of eight years of age she was taken by her grandmother to church.  The parish minister was not only a long preacher, but, as the custom was, delivered two sermons on the Sabbath day without any interval, and thus saved the parishioners the two journeys to church.  Elizabeth was sufficiently wearied before the close of the first discourse; but when, after singing and prayer, the good minister opened the Bible, read a second text, and prepared to give a second sermon, the young girl, being both tired and hungry, lost all patience, and cried out to her grandmother, to the no small amusement of those who were so near as to hear her, “Come awa, granny, and gang hame; this is a lang grace, and nae meat.”

A most amusing account of child humour used to be narrated by an old Mr. Campbell of Jura, who told the story of his own son.  It seems the boy was much spoilt by indulgence.  In fact, the parents were scarce able to refuse him anything he demanded.  He was in the drawing-room on one occasion when dinner was announced, and on being ordered up to the nursery he insisted on going down to dinner with the company.  His mother was for refusal, but the child persevered, and kept saying, “If I dinna gang, I’ll tell thon.”  His father then, for peace sake, let him go.  So he went and sat at table by his mother.  When he found every one getting soup and himself omitted, he demanded soup, and repeated, “If I dinna get it, I’ll tell thon.”  Well, soup was given, and various other things yielded to his importunities, to which he always added the usual threat of “telling thon.”  At last, when it came to wine, his mother stood firm, and positively refused, as “a bad thing for little boys,” and so on.  He then became more vociferous than ever about “telling thon;” and as still he was refused, he declared, “Now, I will tell thon,” and at last roared out, “Ma new breeks were made oot o’ the auld curtains!”

The Rev. Mr. Agnew has kindly sent me an anecdote which supplies an example of cleverness in a Scottish boy, and which rivals, as he observes, the smartness of the London boy, termed by Punch the “Street boy.”  It has also a touch of quiet, sly Scottish humour.  A gentleman, editor of a Glasgow paper, well known as a bon-vivant and epicure, and by no means a popular character, was returning one day from his office, and met near his own house a boy carrying a splendid salmon.  The gentleman looked at it with longing eyes, and addressed the boy—­“Where are you taking that salmon, my boy?” Boy—­“Do you ken gin ae Mr. ——­ (giving the gentleman’s name) lives hereabout?” Mr. ——­ “Yes, oh yes; his house is here just by.”  Boy (looking sly)—­“Weel, it’s no for him.”  Of this same Scottish boy cleverness, the Rev. Mr. M’Lure of