"Weel, John, we're gawin to part.

I hae been a gude wife to you, John." "Oh, just middling, just middling, Jenny," said John, not disposed to commit himself.

"John," says she, "ye maun promise to bury me in the auld kirk-yard at Stra'von, beside my mither.

I couldna rest in peace among unco folk, in the dirt and smoke o' Glasgow." "Weel, weel, Jenny, my woman," said John soothingly, "we'll just pit you in the Gorbals _first_, and gin ye dinna lie quiet, we'll try you sine in Stra'von." The same unimaginative and matter-of-fact view of things connected with the other world extended to a very youthful age, as in the case of a little boy who, when told of heaven, put the question, "An' will faather be there ?" His instructress answered, "of course, she hoped he would be there;" to which he sturdily at once replied, "Then I'll no gang." We might apply these remarks in some measure to the Scottish pulpit ministrations of an older school, in which a minuteness of detail and a quaintness of expression were quite common, but which could not now be tolerated.

I have two specimens of such antiquated language, supplied by correspondents, and I am assured they are both genuine.
The first is from a St.Andrews professor, who is stated to be a great authority in such narratives.
In one of our northern counties, a rural district had its harvest operations affected by continuous rains.