Rough Scan
 






 
       
        X
         
        SANDY AND HIS FAIRNTICKLES.
         
        THERE’S 
          twa things Sandy Bowden’s haen sin’ ever I got acquant wi’ him—an that’s 
          no’ the day nor yesterday—that’s fairntickles an’ cheepin’
        buits.  I never kent Sandy bein’ withoot a pair o’ 
          ‘lastic-sided buits that gaed squakin’ to the kirk like twa croakin’ 
          hens.  I’ve seen the fowk sometimes turn roond-aboot 
          in their seats, when Sandy cam’ creakin’ up the passage, as gin they 
          thocht it was a brass-band comin’ in.  
          But Sandy appears to think there’s something reverint an’ Sabbath-like 
          in cheepin’ buits, an’ he sticks to them, rissen be’t or neen.  I can tell ye, it’s a blissin’ there’s no’ 
          mony mair like him, or we’d hae gey streets on Sabbath.  The noise the maitter o’ twenty chields like 
          Sandy cud mak’ wi’ their buit soles wud fair deave a hale
        neeperhude.
        Hooever, 
          it wasna Sandy’s buits I was to tell you aboot; it was my nain.  But afore I say onything aboot them, I maun 
          tell you aboot the fairntickles.  As 
          I was sayin’, Sandy’s terriple fairntickled aboot the neck an’ the sides 
          o’ the nose, an’ oor lest holiday made him a hankle waur than
        uswal.  He’s a gey prood mannie too, mind ye, although 
          he winna haud wi’t.  But I can 
          tell you it’s no a bawbee-wirth o’ hair oil that sairs Sandy i’ the 
          week.  But that’s nether here nor there.
        Weel, 
          Sandy had been speakin’ aboot his fairntickles to Saunders Robb.  Saunders, in my opinion, is juist a haiverin’ 
          auld ass.  He’s a hoddel-dochlin’, 
          hungert-lookin’ wisgan o’ a cratur; an’, I’m shure, he has a mind to 
          match his body.  There’s naethin’ 
          he disna ken aboot—an’, the fac’ is, he kens naething.  He’s aye i’ the wey o’ improvin’ ither fowk’s
        wark.  There’s naethin’ Saunders 
          disna think he could improve, excep’ himsel’ mibby.  I canna be bathered wi’ the chatterin’, fykie, kyowowin’ little
        wratch.  He’s aye throwin’ oot 
          suggestions an’ hints aboot this and that.  
          He’s naething but a suggestion himsel’, an’ I’m shure I cud of’en 
          throw him oot, wi’ richt gude will.
        Weel, 
          he’d gien Sandy some cure for his fairntickles, an’ Sandy, unbekent 
          to me, had gotten something frae the druggie an’ mixed it up wi’ a guid
        three-bawbee’s-wirth o’ cream that I had in the upstairs press.  He had rubbit it on his face an’ neck afore 
          he gaed till his bed; but he wasna an ‘oor beddit when he had to rise.  An’ sik a sicht as he was!  His face an’ neck were as yellow’s
        mairyguilds, 
          an’ yallower; an’ though I’ve taen washin’ soda, an’ pooder, an’ the 
          very scrubbin’ brush till’t, Sandy’s gaen aboot yet juist like’s he 
          was noo oot o’ the yallow fivver an’ the jaundice thegither.
        “Ye’ll 
          better speer at Saunders what’ll tak’ it aff,” says I till him the ither 
          mornin’.
        “If 
          I had a grip o’ Saunders, I’ll tak’ mair than the fairntickles aff him,” 
          says he; an’ faigs, mind you, there’s nae sayin’ but ho may do’t; he’s 
          a spunky carlie Sandy, when he’s raised.
        But, 
          as far as that’s concerned, I’m no’ sorry at it, far it’ll keep the 
          cratur awa’ frae the place.  Sin’ 
          Sandy put that sofa into the washin’-hoose, him an’ twa-three mair’s 
          never lain oot o’t.  Lyin’ smokin’ an’ spittin’ an’ crackin’ aboot 
          life bein’ a trauchle, an’ so on!  I 
          tell you, if it had lested muckle langer, I’d gien them a bucket o’ 
          water sweesh aboot their lugs some day; that’s juist as fac’s ocht.
        But 
          I maun tell you aboot my mischanter wi’ my noo buits.  I’m sure it has fair delighted Sandy.  He thinks he’s gotten a hair i’ my neck noo that’ll haud him gaen 
          a while.  He was needin’t, I 
          can tell you.  If ilky mairter 
          he’s made had been a hair in his neck, I’ll swag, there wudna been room 
          for mony fairntickles.
        Weel, 
          I gaed awa’ to the kirk lest Sabbath—Sandy, of coorse, cudna get oot 
          wi’ his yallow face an’ neck.  He 
          had a bran poultice on’t to see if it wud do ony guid.  
          I canna do wi’ noo buits ava, till I’ve worn them a while.  I pet them on mibby to rin an errand or twa, 
          till they get the set o’ my fit, an’ syne I can manish them to the
        kirk.  But I canna sit wi’ noo buits; they’re that 
          uneasy.  I got a noo pair lest
        Fursday, an’ tried them on on Sabbath mornin’.  
          But na, na!  Altho’ my 
          auld anes were gey binkit, an’ worn doon at the heels, I juist put them 
          on gey hurried, an’ aff I set to the kirk, leavin’ Sandy to look efter 
          the denner.
        I 
          was feelin’ akinda queerish when I startit; but I thocht it was juist 
          the hurry, an’ that a breath o’ the caller air wud mak’ me a’ richt.  But faigs, mind ye, instead o’ better I grew
        waur.  My legs were like to double 
          up aneth me, an’ my knees knokit up again’ ane anither like’s they’d 
          haen a pley aboot something.  I 
          fand a sweit brakin’ oot a’ ower me, an’ I had to stop on the brae an’ 
          grip the railin’s, or, it’s juist as fac’s ocht, I wudda been doon i’ 
          the road on the braid o’ my back.  I thocht I was in for a roraborialis, or some 
          o’ thae terriple diseases.  Eh, 
          I was feard I wud dee on the open street; I was that!  Mysie Meldrum noticed me, an’ she cam’ rinnin’ to speer what was 
          ado.
        “I’ve 
          taen an awfu’ dwam, Mysie,” says I.  
        “I think I’m gonna dee.  Ye 
          micht juist sit doon on the railin’s aside’s till the fowk be by.”
        “I 
          think we’re aboot the henmost, Bawbie,” says she.  “We’re gey late; but I’ll bide aside you, lassie.”
        We 
          sat for the maitter o’ ten meenits, an’ I got akinda roond, an’ thocht 
          I wud try an’ get hame.  Mistress 
          Kenawee had putten on her tatties an’ come oot for a dander a bittie, 
          an’ noticed the twa o’s; so she cam’ up, an’ I got her airm an’ Mysie’s, 
          an’, though it was a gey job, we manished to get hame.  
          An’ gled I was when I saw Sandy’s yallow nose again, I can tell 
          ye, for I was share syne I wud dee at hame amon’ my nain bed-claes.
        “The 
          Lord preserve’s a’!” says Mysie when she saw Sandy.  “What i’ the name o’ peace has come ower you?  I’ll need to go!  I’ve Leeb’s bairns at hame, you see, an’ this is the collery or 
          the renderpest or something come ower you twa, an’ I’m feard o’ smittin’ 
          the bairns, or I wudda bidden.  As 
          shure’s I live, I’ll need to go!“ an’ she vanisht oot at the door wi’ 
          a face as white’s kauk.
        “I 
          think I’ll rin for the docter, Bawbie,” said Mistress Kenawee.  She kent aboot Sandy’s fairntickles afore, 
          of coorse, an’ sandy’s yallow fizog didna pet her aboot.
        “Juist 
          hover a blink,” says I, “till I see if I come to mysel’.”
        I 
          sat doon in the easy-chair, an’ Sandy was in a terriple wey aboot me.  He cudna speak a wird, but juist keepit sayin’, 
          “O dinna dee, Bawbie, dinna dee; your denner’s ready!“  He lookit me up an’ doon, an’ then booin’ doon 
          till he was for a’ the world juist like a half-steekit knife he roars
        oot, “What’s ado wi’ your feet, Bawbie?  
          Look at them!  Your faes 
          are turned oot juist like the hands o’ the tnock, at twenty meenits 
          past edit.  You’re shurely no genna tak’ a parrylattick 
          stroke.”
        I 
          lookit doon, an’ shure eneuch my taes were turned oot an’ curled roond 
          like’s they were gaen awa’ back ahent my heels.  
          Mistress Kenawee got doon on her knees aside me.
        “Preserve’s 
          a’, Bawbie,” says she; “you have your buits on the wrang feet!  Nae winder than your knees were knokin’ thegither 
          wi’ thae auld worn-doon heels turned inside, an’ your taes turned
        oot.”
        But 
          I’ll better no’ say nae mair aboot it.  
          I was that angry, and Mistress Kenawee, the bissam, was like 
          to tnet hersel’ lauchin’; but, I ashure ye, I never got sik a fleg in 
          my life—an’ sik simple dune too, mind ye.