They were as odd a lot of tales as I ever heard—­drawled (oh so admirably drawled, without the flutter of an eyelid, or the quiver of a muscle) by a Lowland Scotchman, and queerly characteristic of the Lowland Scotch race!!!!  Picture this slow phlegmatic rendering to your “mind’s eye, Horatia!”

A certain excellent woman after a long illness—­departed this life, and the Minister went to condole with the Widower.  “The Hand of affliction has been heavy on yu, Donald.  Ye’ve had a sair loss in your Jessie.”

“Aye—­aye—­I’ve had a sair loss in my Jessie—­an’ a heavy ex-pense.”

* * * * *

A good woman lost her husband, and the Minister made his way to the court where she lived.  He found her playing cards with a friend.  But she was aequus ad occasionem—­as Charlie says!—­

“Come awa’, Minister!  Come awa’ in wi’ ye.  Ye’ll see I’m just hae-ing a trick with the cairds to ding puir Davie oot o’ my heid.”

* * * * *

I don’t know if the following will read comprehensibly. Told it was overwhelming, and was a prime favourite with the Scotch audience.

Hoo oor Baby was burrrned. 
(How our Baby was burnt.)

(You must realize a kind of amiable bland whine in the way of telling this.  A caressing tone in the Scotch drawl, as the good lady speaks of oor wee Wullie, etc.  Also a roll of the r’s on the word burned.)

“Did ye never hear hoo oor wee Baby was burrrned?  Well ye see—­it was this way.  The Minister and me had been to Peebles—­and we were awfu’ tired, and we were just haeing oor bit suppers—­when oor wee Wullie cam doon-stairs and he says—­’Mither, Baby’s burrrning.’

“—­Y’unerstan it was the day that the Minister and me were at Peebles.  We were awful tired, and we were just at oor suppers, and the Minister says (very loud and nasal), ’Ca’ll Nurrse!’—­but as it rarely and unfortunitly happened—­Nurrse was washing and she couldna be fashed.

“And in a while our WEE Wullie cam down the stairs again, and he says—­’Mither!  Baby’s burning.’

“—­as I was saying the Minister and me had been away over at Peebles, and we were in the verra midst of oor suppers, and I said to him—­’Why didna ye call Nurse?’—­and off he ran.

“—­and there was the misfirtune of it—­Nurrse was washing, and she wouldn’t be fashed.

“And—­in—­a while—­oor weee Wullie—­came doon the stairs again—­and he says ‘Mither!  Baby’s burrrned.’  And that was the way oor poor woe baby was burnt!”

* * * * *

Now for one English one and then I must stop to-day.  I flatter myself I can tell this with a nice mincing and yet vinegar-ish voice.

“When I married my ’Usbin I had no expectation that he would live three week.