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The Highland monthly - National Library of Scotland

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Scenes <strong>of</strong> Long Ago. 165<br />

with a thick sheet <strong>of</strong> ice—save those mysterious parts<br />

which, perhaps in consequence <strong>of</strong> hidden springs, rarely or<br />

never became congealed.<br />

When a great booming noise arose in Corrie GobHn,<br />

Mark Teviot would sometimes look anxious, and say that<br />

a storm was at hand ; but apparently similar sounds from<br />

the same quarter indicated to his practised ear an approach-<br />

ing thaw.<br />

Would that some passing and propitious muse might<br />

aid m}' feeble pen, as now, after the lapse <strong>of</strong> many years, I<br />

would sing, in no sad tone, the Winter Nights <strong>of</strong> my first<br />

recollection, which seem in the distant perspective all<br />

blended into one. Outside the House <strong>of</strong> Glenbeltane might<br />

be darkness and tempest, but within was warmth and light<br />

and innocent enjoyment. <strong>The</strong> sheep are secure under the<br />

shelter <strong>of</strong> the great wood ;<br />

the<br />

horses and cattle are snugly<br />

and<br />

housed, with recently replenished hack and manger ;<br />

the shepherds, free from every care, are grouped around the<br />

wide kitchen hearth, where glow <strong>of</strong> genial humour animates<br />

every heart. <strong>The</strong> women folk have still their household<br />

duties to attend to—baking, peeling potatoes, knitting,<br />

attending to the fire, and what not ; while ever keeping a<br />

sharp ear to what is being said, and joining in the conversa-<br />

tion as they come and go.<br />

<strong>The</strong>re, from time to time, might be heard some plaintive<br />

elegy upon the death in battle <strong>of</strong> one <strong>of</strong> the Chiefs <strong>of</strong> Duncairn,<br />

or a song <strong>of</strong> many stanzas celebrating the power and<br />

munificence <strong>of</strong> the same noble line. Now it would be the<br />

mournful strains <strong>of</strong> despairing love, and anon the gay<br />

notes <strong>of</strong> a tender carol, that claimed our attention.<br />

Among the numerous occasional visitants <strong>of</strong> our circle,<br />

one there w^as, for whose coming w^e always looked with<br />

pleasure. This was Johnnie <strong>of</strong> Pitstitchie, the tailor from<br />

Balmosis, who used to ply his craft upon the spacious table<br />

that stood between the wall and the fire. Though his right<br />

hand moved rapidly, its utmost speed was slow in com-<br />

parison with the swiftness <strong>of</strong> his tongue ;<br />

and the quips and

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