Brockit an the Buttrie
by: Wheeler, Les
Ye ken the kine o a day ye affen get in June fan it’s affa het an the hey in the parks is jist turned yalla. Weel, it wis een o that kind o days an Brockit wis dodgin aboot in the hey park. He wisna pittin an affa lot o effort intae his dodgin for it wis an affa, affa het day.
Noo, at the bottom o the park wis a steen dyke. The dyke hid been there for mony a lang year - lang, lang afore the fermer got there, in fact, afore the fermer’s faither got there.
The steens o the dyke were covert in moss an that made a grand saft placie for a cat tae lie an hae a wee rest in the sun. Michty, fu cats like tae lie in the sun!
Brockit clammert up the dyke an streetched himsel oot on the tap an let the sun warm him aa ower. ‘O this is rare,’ thocht Brockit, ‘an fin I’ve hin a gweed rest I’ll gyang back tae the byre for a suppie o cauld milk!’
Brockit lay there jist dozin awa an dreamin o cauld milk an big fish fan he felt something ticklin his lugs. He pit up a paw, waved it aboot his lugs, an settled doon again. This time, in his dream, he’d mak the milk cauler an the fish bigger.
But the ticklin didna stop. He felt it on his back as weel. ‘Fit on earth is this?’ he asked himsel.
Brockit hid been lyin on the moss, but growin oot o the cracks an gaps atween the steens in the dyke were a lot o wild flooers. The fermers sprayed their parks tae get rid o weeds, sae affen the only place wild flooers can growe is oot atween the gaps in the steens in the dykes roon the parks.
Brockit got up aff o the saft moss tae see this broon an reid fleein thing wi thin horns stickin oot o its held. Brockit didna ken fit it wis! It wisna a bee, a foggie-bummer or a wasp; It wis ower big. It wisna a bird; it wis ower sma an it didna hae a beak. Fit could it be?
Weel, of course, it wis a buttrie - a butterfly. It wis hoverin an jinkin aroon the flooers lookin for something tae eat an fan it come across Brockit it hid a gweed look at him as weel.
Brockit hid been waakin throwe the hey park an lots o bitties o flooers an girss hid stuck tae his fur. That’s fit attracted the buttrie!
Weel, Brockit wisna in the mood tae be tickled, nae on a het day like this an by a beastie he didna ken. He waved his paws again, but the buttrie jist jinkit oot o the wye. He tried baith paws, but that wisna ony better. Brockit wis seen chasin himsel roon in circles, but he nivver got near haun touchin the buttrie!
Syne, Brockit took a muckle loup at the buttrie, missed it again an went rummlin aff the dyke an landed on the grun at the fit o it. Brockit wisna neen hurt an, efter he gaed himsel a shak, wisna ony o the worse.
The buttrie wis still flittin an jinkin among the wild flooers on the tap o the dyke.
Brockit thocht he’d jist gyang back tae his usual perch on tap o the auld milk urn. Buttries are affa bonny craturs an fan they div flit past ye, it’s jist as weel tae leave them alane to get on wi their ain life, for the warld widna be near as bonny a place withoot them.