“I did say ’am,” the lad protested in an injured tone.
“You said ’am,” cried the father fiercely. “’Am’s what it should be. ’Am, not ’am.”
In the middle of the squabble the farmer’s wife turned to me and, with a deprecatory little laugh, explained:
“They both think they’re sayin’ ’am, sir.”
Passing along Princes Street, Edinburgh, one day a herculean Scots Grey stopped at the post-office and called on a street arab to polish his boots. The feet of the dragoon were in proportion to his height and, looking at the tremendous boots before him, the arab knelt down on the pavement and shouted out to his chum across the road, “Jamie, come ower an’ gie’s a hand, I’ve got an army contract.”
The younger man had been complaining that he could not get his wife to mend his clothes.
“I asked her to sew a button on this vest last night, and she hasn’t touched it,” he said. At this the older man assumed the air of a patriarch.