Regular

A very small but very angry blue face, with the lump of snow still balanced on top of it, looked out at the sudden white wilderness.
“Ach, crivens!” it grumbled. “Will ye no’ look at this? ‘Tis the work o’ the Wintersmith! Noo there’s a scunner that willna tak’ ‘no’ fra’ an answer!”
Other lumps of snow were pushed up. More heads peered out.
“Oh waily, waily, waily!” said one of them. “He’s found the big wee hag again!”
The first head turned toward this head, and said, “Daft Wullie?”
“Yes, Rob?”
“Did I no’ tell ye to lay off that waily business?”
“Aye, Rob, ye did that,” said the head addressed as Daft Wullie.
“So why did ye just do it?”
“Sorry, Rob. It kinda bursted oot.”
“It’s so dispiritin’.”
“Sorry, Rob.”

– the Feegles, on (in) the snow | Terry Pratchett, Wintersmith