Erchie, My Droll Friend. Munro Neil

diversions for the puir wee smout. And she’ll hae that mony things that she’ll no’ can say whit she wants next. I ken fine the wye it’ll be up yonder at Skibo.

      “It’ll be, ‘Paw, I’m wantin’ something.’

      “‘Whit is’t, my dawtie, and ye’ll get it to break?’ Mr Carnegie’ll say, and lift her on his knee, and let her play wi’ the works o’ his twa thoosand pound repeater watch.

      “‘I dinna’ ken,’ says the wee lassie, ‘but I want it awfu’ fast.’

      “‘Whit wad ye be sayin’ to an electric doll wi’ a phonograph inside it to mak’ it speak?’ asks Mr Carnegie.

      “‘I’m tired o’ dolls,’ says the wee yin, ‘and, besides, I wad raither dae the speakin’ mysel’.’

      “‘Ye’re a rale wee woman there, Maggie,’ says her paw.

      “‘Weel, whit dae ye say to a wee totey motorcar a’ for your ain sel’, and jewelled in four-and-twenty holes?’ says he efter that, takin’ the hands o’ his watch frae her in case she micht swallow them.

      “‘Oh! a motor-car,’ says the wee lassie. ‘No, I’m no carin’ for ony mair motor-cars; ‘I canna get takin’ them to my bed wi’ me.’

      “‘Ye’re weel aff there,’ says he. ‘I’ve had the hale o’ the Pittsburg works to my bed wi’ me,’ he says. ‘They were in my heid a’ the time when I couldna sleep, and they were on my chest a’ the time when I was sleepin’?’

      “‘Whit wye that, paw?’ says the wee lassie. “‘I was feart something wad gae wrang, and I wad lose a’ the tred, and be puir again.’

      “‘But I thocht ye wanted to die puir, paw?’ says the wee lassie.

      “‘Ay, but I never had ony notion o’ leevin’ puir,’ says Mr Carnegie as smert’s ye like, ‘and that mak’s a’ the difference. If ye’re, no’ for anither motor carriage, wad ye no’ tak’ a new watch?’

      “‘No, paw,’ says the wee lassie, ‘I’m no’ for anither watch. The only thing a watch tells ye is when it’s time to gang to bed, and then I’m no wantin’ to gang onywye. Whit I wad like wad be ane o’ thae watches that has haunds that dinna move when ye’re haein’ awfu’ fine fun.’

      “‘Oh, ay!’ says her paw at that; ‘that’s the kind we’re a’ wantin’, but they’re no’ makin’ them, and I’m no’ shair that I wad hae muckle use for yin nooadays eyen if they were. If ye’ll no’ hae a watch, will ye hae a yacht, or a brass band, or a fleein’-machine, or a piebald pony?’

      “‘I wad raither mak’ mud-pies,’ says the wee innocent.

      “‘Mud-pies!’ cries her faither in horror, lookin’ roond to see that naebody heard her. ‘Wheesh! Maggie, it wadna look nice to see the like o’ you makin’ mud-pies. Ye havena the claes for’t. Beside, I’m tellt they’re no’ the go nooadays at a’.

      “‘Weel,’ says she at that, ‘I think I’ll hae a hairy-heided lion.’

      “‘Hairy-heided lion. Right!’ says Mr Carnegie. ‘Ye’ll get that, my wee lassie,” and cries doon the turret stair to the kitchen for his No. 9 secretary.

      “The No. 9 secretary comes up in his shirt sleeves, chewin’ blot-sheet and dichting the ink aff his elbows.

      “‘Whit are ye thrang at the noo?’ asks Mr Carnegie as nice as onything to him, though he’s only a kind o’ a workin’ man.

      “‘Sendin’ aff the week’s orders for new kirk organs,’ says the No. 9 secretary, ‘and it’ll tak’ us till Wednesday.’

      “‘Where’s a’ the rest o’ my secretaries?’ asks Mr Carnegie.

      “‘Half o’ them’s makin’ oot cheques for new leebraries up and doon the country, and the ither halfs oot in the back-coort burning letters frae weedows wi’ nineteen weans, nane o’ them daein’ for themsel’s, and frae men that were dacent and steady a’ their days, but had awfu’ bad luck.’

      “‘If it gangs on like this we’ll hae to put ye on the night-shift,’ says Mr Carnegie. ‘It’s comin’ to’t when I hae to write my ain letters. I’ll be expected to write my ain books next. But I’ll no’ dae onything o’ the kind. Jist you telegraph to India, or Africa, or Japan, or wherever the hairy-heided lions comes frae, and tell them to send wee Maggie ane o’ the very best at 50 per cent aff for cash.’

      “Early ae mornin’ some weeks efter that, when the steam-hooter for wakenin’ the secretaries starts howlin’ at five o’clock, Mr Carnegie comes doon stair and sees the hairy-heided lion in a crate bein’ pit aff a lorry. He has it wheeled into the wee lassie when she’s at her breakfast.

      “‘Let it oot,’ she says; ‘I want to play wi’t.’

      “‘Ye wee fuiter!’ he says, lauchin’ like onything, ‘ye canna get playin’ wi’t oot o’ the cage, but ye’ll can get feedin’t wi’ sultana-cake.’

      “But that disna suit wee Maggie, and she jist tells him to send it awa’ to the Bronx Zoo in New York.

      “‘Bronx Zoo. Right!’ says her paw, and cries on his No. 22 secretary to send it aff wi’ the parcel post at yince.

      “‘That minds me,’ he says, ‘there’s a cryin’ heed for hairy-heided lions all over Europe and the United States. The moral and educative influence o’ the common or bald-heided lion is of no account. Noo that maist o’ the kirks has twa organs apiece, and there’s a leebrary in every clachan in the country, I must think o’ some ither wye o’ gettin’ rid o’ this cursed wealth. It was rale’ cute o’ you, Maggie, to think o’t; I’ll pay half the price o’ a hairy-heided lion for every toon in the country wi’ a population o’ over five hundred that can mak’ up the ither half by public subscription.’

      “And then the wee lassie says she canna tak’ her parridge.

      “‘Whit for no’?’ he asks her, anxious-like. ‘Are they no guid?’

      “‘Oh, they’re maybe guid enough,’ she says, ‘but I wad raither hae toffie.’

      “‘Toffie. Right!’ says her paw, and orders up the chef to mak’ toffie in a hurry.

      “‘Whit’s he gaun to mak’ it wi’?’ asks the wee yin.

      “‘Oh, jist in the ordinar’ wye – wi’ butter and sugar,’ says her paw.

      “‘That’s jist common toffie,’ says the wee lassie; ‘I want some ither kind.’

      “‘As shair’s death, Maggie,’ he says, ‘there’s only the ae wye o’ makin’ toffie.’

      “‘Then whit’s the use o’ haein’ a millionaire for a paw?’ she asks.

      “‘True for you,’ he says, and thinks hard. ‘I could mak’ the chef put in champed rubies or a di’mond or twa grated doon.’

      “‘Wad it mak’ the toffie taste ony better?’ asks the wee cratur’.

      “‘No’ a bit better,’ he says. ‘It wadna taste sae guid as the ordinary toffie, but it wad be nice and dear.’

      “‘Then I’ll jist hae to hae the plain, chape toffie,’ says wee Maggie.

      “‘That’s jist whit I hae to hae mysel’ wi’ a great mony things,’ says her paw. ‘Being a millionaire’s nice enough some wyes, but there’s a wheen things money canna buy, and paupers wi’ three or four thoosand paltry, pounds a-year is able to get jist as guid toffie and ither things as I can. I canna even dress mysel’ different frae ither folks, for it wad look rideeculous to see me gaun aboot wi’ gold cloth waistcoats and a hat wi’ strings o’ pearls on it, so a’ I can dae is to get my nickerbocker suits made wi’ an extra big check. I hae the pattern that big noo