My Man Sandy

s share's I'm a livin' woman. There's no' a closed e'e for me this nicht; an' there's Sandy awa' till his bed wi' his airms rowed

ed, naked fowk 'at never wash themsel's; an' they say he's made a heap o' bawbees. He's a snod bit stockie-a little beld, an' bowd-leggit, an' wants a thoom. But, I'll swag, the young

air noo whitened, an' every stap was kaumed an' sandit, ye never saw the like. An' there she was hersel' wi' her

But we got him made gey snod, an' syne we gaed inby to the ben-hoose fireside, an' had a crack wi' young Aleck. That's the son's name. Sandy an' him got started aboot mustaings, an' Indeen

ut-the-hoose afore they cam' ben to see Aleck, d'ye see? He made himsel' rale frank, an' speer'd for a' their

was lang startit. He's aye the same when he g

his moo wi' them. His een gaed up intil his heid, an' gin I hadna gien him a daud i' the back, that garred the nets f

e's! Gin I'd kenned, I'd latten him

en, to see a noo henhouse 'at Aleck had been tarri

for that tar's weet yet,"

wi' his fingers, an' syne dichtin't on the tail o' his

slins that you'd stealt ooten his ain gairden. I mind I was here when he cam' doon to tell your father aboot your ongaens. You was a wild tyke o' a laddie, I can tell ye. Your father gae you an a

m were juist thick an' three-faud afore they were half-an-'oor thegith

n' pucklies o' chuckinwirth an' persly scattered roond the rob-roys. It was awfu' nice. It would raley garre

istress Mikaver ran ben the ho

He leaned forrit an' spread oot the muckle clunkers o' hands o' him on the tap o' the peat o' a big roobarb tert. "O Lord," was a' the len'th he'd gotten, when in he gaed, up near to the elbas amon' the het roobarb; an' by a' the skoilin' an' roarin' ev

owden!" I cried, my very heid

can I haud my tongue, an' my air

wink, an' efter a whilie we got the airms rowed up. I cudna gae ben to bid the ither fowk guid-nicht, my hert was that sair; an' Sandy was hingin' his heid like a sick dog. Pu