I'm thinkin' it'll be a story: there's a heap o' them prentit noo, they tell me.
Or 'deed maybe it may be a sang.

He thinks a heap o' sangs.

I h'ard my mither ance say she was some feared Donal micht hae ta'en to makin' sangs himsel'; no 'at there was ony ill i' that, she said, gien there wasna ony ill i' the sangs themsel's; but it was jist some trifflin' like, she said, an' they luikit for better frae Donal, wi' a' his buik lear, an' his Euclid--or what ca' they't ?--nor makin' sangs." "What's Euclid, Nicie ?" "Ye may weel speir, missie! but I hae ill tellin' ye.

It's a keerious name till a buik, an' min's me o' naething but whan the lid o' yer e'e yeuks (itches); an' as to what lies atween the twa brods o' 't, I ken no more nor the man i' the meen." "I should like to ask Donal what book he has got," said Ginny.
"I'll cry till 'im, an' ye can speir," said Nicie.--"Donal!--Donal!" Donal looked up, and seeing his sister, came running to the bank of the stream.
"Canna ye come ower, Donal ?" said Nicie.

"Here's Miss Galbraith wants to spier ye a question." Donal was across in a moment, for here the water was nowhere over a foot or two in depth.
"Oh, Donal! you've wet your feet!" cried Ginevra.
Donal laughed.
"What ill 'ill that dee me, mem ?" "None, I hope," said Ginny; "but it might, you know." "I micht hae been droont," said Donal.
"Nicie," said Ginny, with dignity, "your brother is laughing at me." "Na, na, mem," said Donal, apologetically.