day
they see a magic lantern.

Mistress Kenawee, an' Mistress Mollison an' her man, the Gairner, an'
the Smith, an' I cudna tell ye hoo mony mair, had gotten wind o't, an'
the washin'-hoose was as foo as cud cram. There was a terriple
atramush amon' the laddies when the can'le was blawn oot, an' syne
Sandy strak a spunk an' lichtit his lantern, an', efter a fell lot o'
fykin', he got her into order.

Sandy gae a keckle o' a host, an' syne he says, "Now, boys an' girls
an' people, the first picture I'm genna show you is Danyil in the den
o' lions. There he is sae!" an' he shot in the picture.

It was an awfu' queer-like picture. I cud nether mak' heid nor tail
o't. It was a' juist akinda greenichy-yallichy like, like's somebody
had skelt a pottal o' green-kail or something on the sheet whaur the
picture was.

"I'm dootin' there's something wrang wi' the fokis," says Bandy Wobster.

"Juist you look efter your ain fokis, Bandy," says Sandy, gey peppery
weys, "an' lat ither fowk's fokises aleen."

"Are ye share you're richt wi' the picture?" Dauvid Kenawee speered.

"There's naething wrang wi' the picture," says Sandy. "Ye see that
kind o' a broon bit doon at the fit there? That's ane o' Danyil's
feet."

"Look the number o' the slide, Sandy," said Bandy, "an' mak' shure
you're richt. They're mibby oot o' order."

"You're oot o' order," said Sandy, as angry as a wasp. "Haud that lum
hat, Bawbie!" he says; an' he oot wi' the picture, an' roars
oot--"Number 2217! Look up 2217, Nathan, i' the book there, an' see
what it says."

Efter kirnin' aboot amon' the leaves o' his book for a meenit or twa,
Nathan got up his nose to the moo o' the lantern an' read oot--"A slice
o' a drunkard's liver."

"What d'ye say?" says Sandy. "Lat's see't."

"A slice o' a drunkard's liver," says Nathan again.

Sandy grippit the book, an' efter a meenit, he says, "Ay, man; so
you're richt. There's been some mixin' amon' the pictures. This is a
slice or section o' a drunkard's liver," he continued, "showin' the
effeks o' alcohol."

The laddies hurraed the drunkard's liver like onything, an' this gae
Sandy time to get his breath, an' to dicht the sweit aff his face.

"That's the kind o' a liver ye'll get if you're drunkards," said Sandy.
"The action o' the alcohol dejinerates the tishie until the liver
becomes akwilly ransed, an' the neebriate becomes a total wreck." At
this the laddies an' lassies clappit their hands l