A Rev. Dr. Henderson of Galashiels in the course of his pastoral visitation, called on a widow with a large family, and asked how they all were, and how things were getting on. She said, “A’ richt, except Davie; he’s been troubled wi’ a sair leg, and no fit for wark.” The doctor could not remember which one Davie was, but did not like to hurt the widow’s feelings by betraying his ignorance, and in his prayer he pled that David’s affliction might be blessed to him. On going home, he said to his wife, referring to his call, “Which of the sons is David?”
“Hoot,” she exclaimed, “Davie’s no a son, Davie’s the cuddie!”
It was the minister there. In the next story it was the other way about. A former minister in the parish of Kilspindie, in the Carse of Gowrie, in the course of his parochial visitation called at the house of a ploughman where the oldest boy, a lad of ten, had been severely coached by his mother in anticipation of the “visit,” and with the hope of his making a good show. When, by and by, the minister took notice of the boy, “Ay,” interposed the mother, “an’ he can say his Carratches, too.” “Indeed!” exclaimed the minister, still eyeing the lad, “how nice! Who made you?”
“God.”
“Quite correct. Who redeemed you?”
“Christ.”
“Right again. You’re a clever little fellow, and [putting his hand on his head] who cut your hair?”
“The Holy Ghost,” was the reply; and the interview terminated.
“Sir,” said the long-haired lessee of a small farm in the North one day as he came up to the door of the Free Church Manse, “this is awfu’ weather w’ drooth; an’ I ha’e come across to see if you wad put up a petition for a shooer o’ rain, for my neeps are just perishin’.”
“You are a member of the Established Church,” said the clergyman addressed; “why not ask your own minister to intercede on behalf of your turnips?”