sae quate and peacefu’, as if the folk here had nocht to dae but daunder roond their hills and follow their wark as trig and easy as if they were i’ the holms o’ Clyde and no i’ the muirs o’ Gled. But they dinna ken, and weel for them, how cauld and hungry and cruel are the hills, how easy a man gangs to his death i’ thae braw glens, how the wind stings i’ the morn and the frost bites at nicht, o’ the bogs and sklidders and dreich hillsides, where there’s life neither for man nor beast.
Weel, about this story, it was yince in a Februar’ mony year syne that it a’ happened, when I was younger and lichter on my feet and mair gleg i’ the seein’.
Ye mind Doctor Crichton—he’s deid thae ten ‘ear, but he was a braw doctor in his time. He could cure when anither was helpless, and the man didna leeve whae wad ride further on less errand.
Now the doctor was terrible keen on fishin’ and shootin’ and a’ manner o’ sport. I’ve heard him say that there were three things he likit weel abune ithers. Yin was the back o’ a guid horse, anither a guid water and a clear wast wind, and the third a snawy day and a shot at the white hares. He had been crakin’ on me for mony a day to gang wi’ him, but I was thrang that ‘ear wi’ cairtin’ up hay for the sheep frae lower doon the glens and couldna dae’t. But this day I had trystit to gang wi’ him, for there had been a hard frost a’ the week, and the hares on the hills wad be in graund fettle. Ye ken the way o’ the thing. Yae man keeps yae side o’ the hill and the ither the ither, and the beasts gang atween them, back and forrit. Whiles ye ‘ll see them pop round the back o’ a dyke and aff again afore ye can get a shot. It’s no easy wark, for the skins o’ the craturs are ill to tell frae the snawy grund, and a man taks to hae a gleg ee afore he can pick them oot, and a quick hand ere he can shoot. But the doctor was rale skilfu’ at it and verra proud, so we set aff brisk-like wi’ our guns.
It was snawin’ lichtly when we startit, and ere we had gone far it begood to snaw mair. And the air was terrible keen, and cut like a scythe-blade. We were weel wrappit up and walkit a’ our pith, but our fingers were soon like to come off, and it was nane sae easy to handle the gun. We tried the Wildshaw Hichts first, and got nane there, though we beat up and doon, and were near smoored wi’ snaw i’ the gullies. I didna half like the look o’ things, for it wasna canny that there should be nae hares, and, forbye, the air was gettin’ like a rusty saw to the face. But the doctor wad hear naething o’ turnin’ back, for he had plenty o’ speerit, had the man, and said if we didna get hares on yae hill we wad get them on the ither.
At that time ye ‘ll mind that I had twae dowgs, baith guid but verra contrar’ in natur’. There was yin ca’ed Tweed, a fine, canty sort o’ beast, very freendly to the bairns, and gien to followin’ me to kirk and things o’ that sort. But he was nae guid for the shootin’, for he was mortal feared at the sound o’ a gun, and wad rin hame as he were shot. The ither I ca’ed Voltaire, because he was terrible against releegion. On Sabbath day about kirk-time he gaed aff to the hills, and never lookit near the hoose till I cam back. But he was a guid sheep dowg and, forbye, he was broken till the gun, and verra near as guid’s a retriever. He wadna miss a day’s shootin’ for the warld, and mony a day he’s gane wi’oot his meat ower the heid o’t. Weel, on this day he had startit wi’ us and said nae words about it; but noo he began to fa’ ahint, and I saw fine he didna like the business. I kenned the dowg never did onything wi’oot a guid reason, and that he was no easy to fricht, so I began to feel uneasy. I stopped for a meenute to try him, and pretended I was gaun to turn hame. He cam rinnin’ up and barkit about my legs as pleased as ye like, and when I turned again he looked awfu’ dowie.
I pointed this oot to the doctor, but he paid nae attention. “Tut, tut,” says he, “if ye ‘re gaun to heed a dowg’s havers, we micht gie a’thing up at yince.”
“It’s nae havers,” I said, hot-like, for I didna like to hear my dowg misca’ed. “There’s mair sense in that beast than what’s in a heap o’ men’s heids.”
“Weel, weel,” he says, “sae let it be. But I’m gaun on, and ye can come or no, just as ye like.”
“Doctor,” says I again, “ye dinna ken the risk ye ‘re rinnin’. I’m a better juidge o’ the wather than you, and I tell ye that I’m feared at this day. Ye see that the air is as cauld’s steel, and yet there’s mist a’ in front o’ ye and ahint. Ye ken the auld owercome, ‘Rouk is snaw’s wraith,’ and if we dinna see a fearsome snaw afore this day’s dune, I ‘ll own my time’s been wastit.”
But naething wad move him, and I had to follow him for fair shame. Sune after, too, we startit some hares, and though we didna get ony, it set the excitement o’ the sport on us. I sune got as keen as himsel’, and sae we trampit on, gettin’ farther intil the hills wi’ every step, and thinkin’ naething about the snaw.
We tried the Gledscleuch and got naething, and syne we gaed on to the Allercleuch, and no anither beast did we see. Then we struck straucht for the Cauldhope Loch, which lies weel hoddit in hills miles frae ony man. But there we cam nae better speed, for a’ we saw was the frozen loch and the dowie threshes and snaw, snaw everywhere, lyin’ and fa’in’. The day had grown waur, and still that dour man wadna turn back. “Come on,” says he, “the drift’s clearin’, and in a wee we ‘ll be on clear grund;” and he steppit oot as he were on the laigh road. The air wasna half as cauld, but thick just like a nicht in hairst; and though there wasna muckle snaw fa’in’ yet, it felt as though there were miles o’ ‘t abune in the cluds and pressin’ doun to the yirth. Forbye, it was terrible sair walkin’, for though the snaw on the grund wasna deep, it was thick and cloggin’. So on we gaed, the yin o’ us in high fettle, the ither no verra carin’, till we cam to the herd’s shielin’ o’ the Lanely Bield, whilk lies in the very centre o’ the hills, whaur I had never been afore.
We chappit at the door and they took us in. The herd was a dacent man, yin Simon Trumbull, and I had seen him aften at kirk and market. So he bade us welcome, and telled us to get our claes dried, for we wadna gang anither step that nicht. Syne his wife made us tea, and it helpit us michtily, for we had drank a’ our whisky lang syne. They had a great fire roarin’ up the lum, and I was sweired, I can tell ye, to gang oot o’ the warm place again into the ill wather.
But I must needs be aff if I was to be hame that nicht, and keep my wife from gaun oot o’ her mind. So I gets up and buttons to my coat.
“Losh, man,” says the herd, “ye ‘re never thinkin’ o’ leavin’. It ‘ll be the awfu’est nicht that ever man heard tell o’. I’ve herdit thae hills this mony ‘ear, and I never saw sic tokens o’ death i’ the air. I’ve my sheep fauldit lang syne, and my hoose weel stockit, or I wadna bide here wi’ an easy hert.”
“A’ the mair need that I should gang,” says I, “me that has naething dune. Ye ken fine my wife. She wad die wi’ fricht, if I didna come hame.”
Simon went to the door and opened it. It blew back on the wa’, and a solid mass o’ snaw fell on the floor. “See that,” he says. “If ye dinna believe me, believe your ain een. Ye need never think o’ seein’ Callowa the nicht.”
“See it or no,” said I, “I ‘ll hae to try’t. Ye’d better bide, doctor; there’s nae cause for you to come wi’ me.”
“I ‘ll gang wi’ you,” he said. “I brocht ye intil this, and I ‘ll see ye oot o’t.” And I never liked the man sae weel as at the word.
When the twae o’ us walkit frae that hoose it was like walkin’ intil a drift o’ snaw. The air was sae thick that we couldna richt see the separate flakes. It was just a great solid mass sinkin’ ever doun, and as heavy as a thousand ton o’ leid. The breath went frae me
