at big cake, juist like this:--

To
B. BOWDEN
from a
F IEND

I lookit anower at Sandy, an' here's him lyin' wi' a look on his face
like's he was wantin' on the Parochial Buird.

"Eh, Sandy! What a man you are!" I says, says I; for, mind you, I was
a richt prood woman on Munanday mornin'.

"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."

He glowered at the cake like's he was tryin' to mismerise somebody; an'
then he says, "See a haud o' my troosers there, Bawbie. I'll go doon
an' pet that baker through his mixin' machine. I'll lat him see what
kind o' a fiend I am. I'll fiend him."

"Hover a blink, Sandy," says I. "Here's ane o' the letters stickin' to
my stokin'." Shure eneuch, here was a great big "R" stickin' to the
ribs o' my stockin'; so I juist took a lickie glue an' stak her on the
cake, an' made it read a' richt. Sandy was rale pleased when he saw me
so big aboot my cake; an' he's been trailin' in aboot a' the neepers to
see "the wife's cake," as he ca's't. An' he stands wi' his thooms i'
the oxter holes o' his weyscot, an' lauchs, an' says, "Tyuch; naething
ava; no wirth speakin' aboot," when I tell them hoo big I am aboot it.

She's genna be broken on Munanday--Nooeer's-day. If you're pasain' oor
wey, look in an' get a crummie. I'll be richt gled to see you, I'm
shure. A happy noo 'ear to you, when it comes--an' mony may ye see!
Ah-hy! Gude-day wi' ye i' the noo than! Imphm! Gude-day. See an'
gie's a cry in on Munanday, noo-na. Ta-ta!

XVII.

AT THE SELECT CHOIR'S CONCERT.

Sin' Friday nicht I've been gaen aboot wi' my hert an' moo fu' o'
musik! Eh, hoo I did enjoy yon Gleeka Koir's singin'. I hinna heard
onything like it for mony a day. D'ye ken, fine musik juist affeks me
like a gude preechin'--an' waur whiles. I canna help frae thinkin'
aboot it. The tune I've been hearin' 'ill come into my heid at a'
times; an' here I'll be maybe croonin' awa' i' the shop to mysel' "Will
ye no' come back again?" an' gien somebody mustard instead o' peysmeal,
an', of coorse, it comes back again, an' a gey wey o' doin'