A clergyman in a mining village not far from Riccarton, in the course of his pastoral visits, called at the domicile of a collier in his parish. Inquiring of a woman he saw, and whom he presumed to be his wife, if her husband was at home, she said: "Deed, na, sir; he's at his work."
"Is your husband, my good woman, a communicant?"
"A communicant! He's naething o' the kind. He's just a collier."
Astonished at the ignorance displayed, the clergyman could not help ejaculating: "Oh, what darkness!"
The collier's wife understanding the language literally, not figuratively, was also astonished.
"Darkness! Little ye ken o't. Had you been here before we got the extra window in the gable ye would scarcely been able to see your finger afore you."
The pastor sighed.
"I must, my dear woman, put up a petition for you here."
"Petition—petition! Bide a wee. Nae petition (partition) will ye put up here sae lang as I am in the house; but at the term we're going ower to Newdiggings, and then ye may put as many o' them as ye like."