SIMON BEVERIDGE, a poor handloom
weaver in Bishopbriggs, had the misfortune to be allied to a very bad
wife— in fact a perfect randy. In all his troubles, however, he had always
the sympathies of his only son Jamie, and many a conversation the two had
on the evil habits and temper of wife and mother.
"Father," the son would say, when
any extra row occurred, "dinna vex yoursel’ aboot that mither o’ mine."
One day Mrs. Beveridge went "ower
the tow" altogether, and Simon, nearly broken-hearted, said to his friend
and comforter:
"Jamie, Jamie, what think ye o’ that
wife o’ mine this morning? is she no an awfu’ heavy handfu’ for onybody to
ha’e, let alane puir me?"
"‘Deed is she, father," said Jamie.
"Is’t no a pity, man,
that ye didna marry Jenny Trams, when ye could ha’e
gotten her for the asking? Sic a mither she would ha’e been
"Ou, ay, Jamie, my man," replied the unhappy Simon,
"it wad ha’e been better a’ ways, but what maun be, maun be."
"Weel, weel, father," said the sympathising son,
"gin ye say that, we must
