JOHN. What'n hints?

DAVID. Well--Lizzie an' her richt's richt and wrang's wrang when
I think o' tellin' wee Alexander a bit story before he gangs tae
his bed.

JOHN (_gently_). Ye are a wee thing persistent, feyther.

DAVID. No, I'm no' persistent, John. I've gied in. I'm a
philosopher, John, an' a philosopher kens when he's done wi'.

JOHN. Aw, feyther!

DAVID (_getting lower and lower_). It's gey interesting,
philosophy, John, an' the only philosophy worth thinkin' about is
the philosophy of growing old--because that's what we're a' doing,
a' living things. There's nae philosophy in a stane, John; he's
juist a stane, an' in a hundred years he'll be juist a stane
still--unless he's broken up, an' then he'll be juist not a
stane, but he'll no' ken what's happened to him, because he didna
break up gradual and first lose his boat an' then his hoose, an'
then hae his wee grandson taken away when he was for tellin' him
a bit story before he gangs tae his bed.--It's yon losing yer
grip bit by bit and kennin' that yer losin' it that makes a
philosopher, John.

JOHN. If I kennt what ye meant by philosophy, feyther, I'd be
better able to follow ye.