LITMIR.BIZ

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of the gloaming they fell into talk. They spoke of friends and kin, and the toils of their life; of village gossip and market prices. Thence they drifted into vague moralisings and muttered exhortation in the odour of whisky. Soon they were amiable beyond their wont, praising each other’s merit, and prophesying of good fortune. And then—alas for human nature!—there came the natural transition to argument and reviling.

      “I wadna be you, Jock, for a thousand pounds,” said the tailor. “Na, I wadna venture up that lang mirk glen o’ yours for a’ the wealth o’ the warld.”

      “Useless body,” said the shepherd, “and what for that?”

      “Bide a’ nicht here,” said the tailor, “and step on in the mornin’. Man, ye’re an auld freend, and I’m wae to think that aucht ill should befa’ ye.”

      “Will ye no speak sense for yince, ye doited cratur?” was the ungracious answer, as the tall man rose to unhook his staff from the chimney corner. “I’m for stertin’ if I’m to win hame afore mornin’.”

      “Weel,” said the tailor, with the choked voice of the maudlin, “a’ I’ve to say is that I wis the Lord may protect ye, for there’s evil lurks i’ the dens o’ the way, saith the prophet.”

      “Stop, John Rorison, stop,” again the tailor groaned. “O man, bethink ye o’ your end.”

      “I wis ye wad bethink o’ yin yoursel’.”

      The tailor heeded not the rudeness … “for ye ken a’ the auld queer owercomes about the Gled Water. Yin Thomas the Rhymer made a word on’t. Quoth he,

      “‘By the Gled side

       The guid folk bide.’”

      “Dodsake, Robin, ye ‘re a man o’ learnin’ wi’ your poetry,” said the shepherd, with scorn. “Rhymin’ about auld wives’ havers, sic wark for a grown man!”

      A vague recollection of wrath rose to the tailor’s mind. But he answered with the laborious dignity of argument,—

      “I’m no sayin’ that a’ things are true that the body said. But I say this— that there’s a heap o’ queer things in the warld, mair nor you nor me nor onybody kens. Now, it’s weel ken’t that nane o’ the folk about here like to gang to the Fairy Knowe….”

      “It’s weel ken’t nae siccan thing,” said the shepherd, rudely. “I wonder at you, a kirk member and an honest man’s son, crakin’ siccan blethers.”

      “I’m affirmin’ naething,” said the other, sententiously. “What I say is that nae man, woman, or child in this pairish, which is weel ken’t for an intelligent yin, wad like to gang at the rising o’ the mune up the side o’ the Fairy Knowe. And it’s weel ken’t, tae, that when the twae daft lads frae the Rochan tried it in my faither’s day and gaed up frae opposite airts, they met at the tap that which telled them a’ that they ever did and a’ that was ever like to befa’ them, and put the fear o’ death on them for ever and ever. Mind, I’m affirmin’ naething; but what think ye o’ that?”

      “I think this o’ ‘t—that either the folk were mair fou than the Baltic or they were weak i’ the heid afore ever they set out. But I’m tired o’ hearin’ a sensible man bletherin’, so I’m awa’ to the Redswirehead.”

      But the tailor was swollen with pride and romance, and filled with the audacity which comes from glasses replenished.

      “Then I ‘ll gang a bit o’ the road wi’ ye.”

      “And what for sae?” said the shepherd, darkly suspicious. Whisky drove care to his head, and made him the most irritable of friends.

      “I want the air, and it’s graund munelicht. Your road gangs by the Knowe, and we micht as weel mak the experiment. Mind ye, I’m affirmin’ naething.”

      “Will ye no haud your tongue about what ye ‘re affirmin’?”

      “But I hold that it is a wise man’s pairt to try all things, and whae kens but there micht be some queer sicht on that Knowe-tap? The auld folk were nane sae ready to be inventin’ havers.”

      “I think the man’s mad,” was the shepherd’s loud soliloquy. “You want me to gang and play daft-like pranks late at nicht among birks and stanes on a muckle knowe. Weel, let it be. It lies on my road hame, but ye’d be weel serv’t if some auld Druid cam out and grippit ye.”

      “Whae’s bletherin’ now,” cried the tailor, triumphantly. “I dinna gang wi’ ony supersteetions. I gang to get the fresh air and admire the wonderfu’ works o’ God. Hech, but they ‘re bonny.” And he waved a patronising finger to the moon.

      The shepherd took him by the shoulder and marched him down the road. “Listen,” said he, “I maun be hame afore the morn, and if ye ‘re comin’ wi’ me ye ‘ll hae to look smerter.” So down the white path and over Gled bridge they took their way, two argumentative figures, clamouring in the silent, amber spaces of the night.

      III

      The farmer of the Lowe Moss was a choleric man at all times, but every now and again his temper failed him utterly. He was florid and full-blooded, and the hot weather drove him wild with discomfort. Then came the torments of a dusty market and completed the task; so it fell out that on that evening in June he drove home at a speed which bade fair to hurry him to a premature grave, and ate his supper with little thankfulness.

      Then he reflected upon his manifold labours. The next day was the clipping, and the hill sheep would have to be brought down in the early morning. The shepherds would be at the folds by seven, and it would mean rising in the small hours to have the flocks in the low fields in time. Now his own shepherd was gone on an errand and would not be back till the morrow’s breakfast. This meant that he, the wearied, the sorely tried, must be up with the lark and tramping the high pastures. The thought was too much for him. He could not face it. There would be no night’s rest for his wearied legs, though the Lord knew how he needed it.

      But as he looked through the window a thought grew upon his mind. He was tired and sore, but he might yet manage an hour or two of toil, if a sure prospect of rest lay at the end. The moon was up and bright, and he might gather the sheep to the low meadows as easily as in the morning. This would suffer him to sleep in peace to the hour of seven, which was indulgence indeed to one who habitually rose at five. He was a man of imagination and hope, who valued a prospect. Far better, he held, the present discomfort, if the certainty of ease lay before him. So he gathered his aching members, reached for his stick, whistled on his dogs, and set out.

      It was a long climb up the ridges of the Lowe Burn to the stell of fir-trees which marked his boundaries. Then began the gathering of the sheep, and a great scurry of dogs,—black dots on the sleepy, moon-lit hill. With much crying of master and barking of man the flocks were massed and turned athwart the slopes in the direction of the steading. All the while he limped grumblingly behind, thinking on bed, and leaving everything to his shaggy lieutenants. Then they crossed the Lowe Burn, skirted the bog, and came in a little to the lower meadows, while afar off over the rough crest of the Fairy Knowe twinkled the lights of the farm.

      Meanwhile from another point of the hill there came another wayfarer to the same goal. The Sentimentalist was a picturesque figure on holiday, enjoying the summer in the way that still remains the best. Three weeks before he had flung the burden of work from his shoulders, and gone with his rod to the Callowa foot, whence he fished far and near even to the utmost recesses of the hills. On this evening the soft airs and the triumphant moon had brought him out of doors. He had a dim memory of a fragrant hazelled knoll above the rocky Gled, which looked up and down three valleys. The place drew him, as it lived in his memory, and he must needs get his plaid and cross the miles of heather to the wished-for sleeping-place. There he would bide the night and see the sunrise, and haply the next morning make a raid into the near village to receive letters delayed for weeks.

      He

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