FRAE A WEE SCOTCH LADDIE.

Otago Witness, Issue 2368, 20 July 1899, Page 58

FRAE A WEE SCOTCH LADDIE.

Dear Dot, — I wild hae written ya afore noo, but I'm Scotch, an' I didna ken if you an yer wee folk wud undcrstan' Scotch. Worst o' it is mither's Scotch, too. So's faither, co I canna, write ye ony plainer; but ye can mak it spell wise like afore ye put it in the little folk's part o' the Witness, which I like to read when mither is mendin my auld nickertrousers an' faither is tellin' me what he'll dae tae me next time I tak his best pipe for to give to wee Davey to blow bubbles. We live a we bittie oot frae Gore, neai Croydon. Mither has hens an' turkeys, an' faithei cairts gravel frae the Mataura. The river's pretty high noo, an' faither's no' workin' ; so to-day I made up my imind to write tae you an' get faither's help when I strike' a big word, an get some paper frae him. He's awful grumpy, so I dinna ask muckle frae him.. He does not like you. Dot. One night when he was readin', I think it was your reply to 8.0.8., he says tae mither, "That auld woman, Dot, she does string thae kids on." Brit I wont away to bed an' cried. You're kind, an' you're not old, are you, Dot? No, faither's hard and cruel. We're jist twa years oot frae hame, an' I'm toe big tae gang tae schule. Mither saya my age is 15; but faither says ye wudna think it. It's no in the Bible. My ither brithers (Geordie an' Davey) an' wee Janet a' hae their names and birthdays in the Bible ; but no me. I sometimes help my mither wi' Jier washin', bit no often. When she canna find me on washin' days she says, " Deil's in me, where's that boy? " Bit I din-_ na think it's boy's work washin', dae you, Dot? I wud like tae see 8.0.8. an' Harry washin' wi' their bare feet this cauld weather. I dinna ken hoo I'm tae get my photo ta'en tae send tae you. Perhaps my photo would spile the whole group. Mither. at times says my heid is just a muckle turnip. Faither says it's noo a' there, so if you jist pit a broken turnip somewhaur i' the group, and write " puir Wullie" under it, I'll be awfu 1 pleased, and fahow it tae mither an' faither, an' perhaps shame them. I cried to think o' my no heius: a.maru; the faces at rfryi'cf.Tv,,.^ jjgn.e, as.'

mither saw me" and says, " What's wrahg wi> ye?-" and .1 jist scratched my toe an' said, "Chilblains." " Faither' Brought me twa rabbit traps hanie, an' said I wis tae set them roun' our wee .patch o' turnips. I didna sea hoo I wis tae mak' two traps gang roun' the turnips; but turnip heid as I am, I set ano on each side o' the patch and next <mornin.' got a half rabbit in one — the cats had eaten the ither half — an' an auld hen in the ither. The hen wis dead. An' as it wis ane o' mither'3 auld pensioners, as faither ca's them, I left it for mither to come and tak' it awa. I met mither. She_sajs in 'an awfu' skirl, "Is that a' ye catched? " looldn' at the half rabbit — I think she expecit a dizzen ; I says, " No, I caught ane o' yer hens, mither." She yelled, " I'll hen ye " ; an' awa' she ran tae the turnips. I watched her. I saw her tak' the auld dead hen an' pit et.tae her -bosom underneath her chin, an' then she pit it doon tae see if it wadno try an' walk. Then she up wi! it again an* wis blowin' doon its beak. Then she 'doon wi" it again, tae see" if it repentit no standin' afore ; but it flopped doon atop o' a turnip. Faither then cam' along, an' askit if she wis tryin' tae hatch turnips. Mither told him tae hatch his old whiskers. Hither-then up wi' the hen again' an' opened ane o' its eyes, but never a cluck oot o' the hen. ■ So mither scolded faither fer bringin' hame thae^ traps, so I'm no to set .them again. Mither also has turkeys. She is half the day chasm' them wi' sticks an' ca's them muckle blabbers. Perhaps I've written' y.e oor muckle, Dot, but I- had tae tell ye maisfc .o' my troubles. I wad like to think o' some o* the -little folk girls krvin' me; but I suppose they won't, for I'm_ so poor* I try tae dae my best, • but can. never please mither . an* faither. If any little folk or you love me, Dofc,^ I'll write again if faither will give me more" r paper. Now, good-bye, Dot, wi' love fromr

WULLIE.

[Poor Wullie! I am quite sure we are all prepared to love him and adore his braw Scottish accent. For his sake I shall freely forgive his father the cruel wrong he has done me in speaking in such a disrespectful manner about one who had never harmed him. I don't think a boy should shirk helping his mother, however, even if the help consists^in treading: the blankets on wash day, and I hope Wullie will turn ovei a new leaf in this respect. I shall feel quite anxious to see how this new contributor is welcomed by the little folk.— DOT.]

DEDICATED TO V. B. (ROSLYN).

Will you ever think of us, Dear anate, now you are gone ? Now that you've left, your absence makes Our spirits sad and lone. Will memory shed upon your heart One shadow of regret? Do you recall those harpy hours In school when first we met?

Oh, if I dared to think you'd* breaths "One gentle sigh for me; 'Twould soothe the pang of parting now-»* The pain of losing thee. Yes. mingle in the festive throng, And in tho cold world dwell; To school "yet cast one lingering thougliS On these who love you well.

Dear old Vernon, we all miss you — even th'a " form looks lonely. It squeaks and sighs for you in, yam. We 'didn't shed many tears for . you at school, we left that interesting ceremony till wo got home.- Even tho clouds have' shed tears since y'ou»left. Good-bye, old fellow, /write soon, under.* mom de plume. The "form sends lq<je to you. Ahem, I mean the fellows on 1 it.-^~ #ARRY.

The- Dodger. — If I allowed you to have the last word, why should I prevent anyone else having another little say about it? Besides, you have not sent your proper name with your letter, and little folk have no more right to neglect this rule than have their elders.