Marykirk kindly supplies a capital specimen, in an instance which occurred at what is called the market, at Fettercairn, where there is always a hiring of servants.  A boy was asked by a farmer if he wished to be engaged.  “Ou ay,” said the youth.  “Wha was your last maister?” was the next question.  “Oh, yonder him,” said the boy; and then agreeing to wait where he was standing with some other servants till the inquirer should return from examination of the boy’s late employer.  The farmer returned and accosted the boy, “Weel, lathie, I’ve been speerin’ about ye, an’ I’m tae tak ye.”  “Ou ay,” was the prompt reply, “an’ I’ve been speerin’ about ye tae, an’ I’m nae gaen.”

We could not have had a better specimen of the cool self-sufficiency of these young domestics of the Scottish type than the following:—­I heard of a boy making a very cool and determined exit from the house into which he had very lately been introduced.  He had been told that he should be dismissed if he broke any of the china that was under his charge.  On the morning of a great dinner-party he was entrusted (rather rashly) with a great load of plates, which he was to carry up-stairs from the kitchen to the dining-room, and which were piled up, and rested upon his two hands.  In going up-stairs his foot slipped, and the plates were broken to atoms.  He at once went up to the drawing-room, put his head in at the door, and shouted:  “The plates are a’ smashed, and I’m awa.”

A facetious and acute friend, who rather leans to the Sydney Smith view of Scottish wit, declares that all our humorous stories are about lairds, and lairds that are drunk.  Of such stories there are certainly not a few.  The following is one of the best belonging to my part of the country, and to many persons I should perhaps apologise for introducing it at all.  The story has been told of various parties and localities, but no doubt the genuine laird was a laird of Balnamoon (pronounced in the country Bonnymoon), and that the locality was a wild tract of land, not far from his place, called Munrimmon Moor.  Balnamoon had been dining out in the neighbourhood, where, by mistake, they had put down to him after dinner cherry brandy, instead of port wine, his usual beverage.  The rich flavour and strength so pleased him that, having tasted it, he would have nothing else.  On rising from table, therefore, the laird would be more affected by his drink than if he had taken his ordinary allowance of port.  His servant Harry or Hairy was to drive him home in a gig, or whisky as it was called, the usual open carriage of the time.  On crossing the moor, however, whether from greater exposure to the blast, or from the laird’s unsteadiness of head, his hat and wig came off and fell upon the ground.  Harry got out to pick them up and restore them to his master.  The laird was satisfied with the hat, but demurred at the wig.  “It’s no my wig, Hairy, lad; it’s no my wig,” and refused to have anything to do with it.  Hairy