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"Man, Aleck," says Sandy, when we were a' on the green juist takin' a look roond aboot's, "it looks juist like the streen that you sat up 'on that very tree there, an' pappit Gairner Winton wi' oslins 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.
Sandy took a gullar o't afore he kent, an' I think he thocht he was brunt, for he nippit up the water bottle, an' took a sweech o' cauld watter, an' then gae a pech like's he'd come ooten a fit. He was a' richt efter a whilie, but the cratur had over-eaten himsel', an' he was gey uneasy a' efternune.
"It was Sandy Claws, 'oman," says he, lauchin'. "He cudna get the box into your stockin', so he juist put your stockin' into the box. But it's juist sax an' half a dizzen, I suppose." I hude up the cake to the licht, an' read oot the braw white sugar letters "'To B. Bowden from a Fiend. But wha's the fiend, Sandy?" says I, I says. "Fiend!" roared Sandy, jumpin' ooten his bed. "Lat's see't."
It was Sandy's turn noo; an' efter Dauvid Kenawee, auld Geordie Steel, an' Moses Certricht had gotten the chairman pu'd oot o' the butter kit, an' on to the boiler-heid again, Sandy raise ooten his seat wi' a look on his face like a nicht watchman.
I'm shure we hadna abune a moofu' o' tea drucken, an' Sandy was juist awa' to tak' aff' the ham, when the fryin' pan was knockit ooten his hand, an' doon the lum cam' a pozel o' bricks an' shute that wudda filled a cairt. Sandy fell back ower an' knockit Mistress Kenawee richt i' the flure.
"When I gaed up the stair wi' a licht, what did I see but my Auntie Leeb's braw lookin'-gless a' to flinders i' the flure? The licht o' the can'le had burned up against it, an' riven't a' to pieces. When I turned roond, here's Sandy stappin' ooten his kilt, an' gaen awa' to pet on his troosers.
Bandy took a bit tarry string, or tabaka or something, ooten his breeks pooch, an', nippin' aff a quarter o' a yaird o't, he into his moo wi't. Syne he swallowed a spittal, an' said "Freends an' fella ratepeyers." Bandy never pey'd rates in's life. He bides in a twa-pound garret i' the Wyndies, an' hardly ever peys rent, lat aleen rates. "Freends an' fella ratepeyers," says he.
"I howp noo, Sandy," I says, says I, "that you'll keep clear o' the eediotikal pliskies you played lest winter." "You can wadger your henmist bodle on that," says Sandy, as he took a rive ooten a penny lafe. "There's to be ither kind o' wark on this winter. Bandy an' me's been busy at the gomitry.
But Pottie sprang oot o' the coat it wasna ill to get ooten, puir chield an' doon the yaird a' he cud flee, wi' Sandy at his tail, whirlin' the hewk roond his heid, an' skreechin' like the very mischief. Bandy an' a' the rest cam' fleein' efter Sandy.
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