"Bodily rest is sleep--is soothing sleep,
Spirit rest is silence deep,
O daily discord! cease, for mercy cease,
Break not this happy peace."
The caravan lay high up on a lonely moorland, amid the solitary grandeur
of the Grampian mountains--a thousand good feet and over above the level
of the sea.
The scenery around us was desolate in the extreme, for no vestige of
human life, no house, no hut, not even a patch of cultivated land, was
anywhere to be seen around us. Above was the blue sky, with here and
there a fleecy cloud, and yonder an eagle soaring. Around us, as a
horizon, the eternal hills, many of them flecked and patched with the
snows, that never melt. Far beneath, at one side, was a stream; though
not visible, we could hear its drowsy chafing roar, as it tumbled
onwards, forming many a foaming cataract, to seek for outlet in some
distant lake. On the other side was a good Scotch mile of heathery
moor, blazing purple and crimson in the sunshine.
Here and there, on grassy banks, great snakes glittered and basked in
the noontide heat, while agile lizards crept over the stones or stood
panting on the heath-stems, to stalk the flies.
It was strangely silent up here. We could listen to the lambkins,
bleating miles away, and the strange wild cry of mountain plover and
ptarmigans, while the song of insects flitting from alpine flower to
alpine flower was pleasant music to the ear.
On the right I could see the dark tops of pine-trees. But they were far
away. Never mind, I would walk towards them. I so love forests and
woodlands.
No, I would have no companion save my trusty friend Bob. A word was
sufficient to deter Maggie May from accompanying me in my ramble. That
word was "Snakes!" Frank was not so easily shaken off; but when I told
him I was probably going to write verses, he refrained from forcing his
company on me. So Bob and I set out on our rambles alone. Verses?
Well, verses come sometimes when least expected. Better than wooing the
muse, is being quiet and letting the muse woo you.
But a sweet spirit of melancholy was over me to-day. I wished for
silence, I longed for solitude. A breeze was murmuring and sighing
through the weird black trees of the forest when I entered it, and I sat
me down on a stone to listen to its wail. Nature seemed whispering some
sad tale to my ears alone. This to me was spirit rest.
It was indeed a strange forest. The trees were all dark firs, though
not tall and not close together. But I had never seen such trees
before. Gnarled and bent and fantastic, taking shapes and casting
shadows that positively looked uncanny. I had not walked an hour among
them till I fancied myself in some enchanted wood, and almost wished
myself out of it and away. I stooped down more than once to smooth and
talk to the great Newfoundland, to reassure myself; and once, when
passing an ugly brown pool of water, I started almost with fright as
some water-birds sprang whirring into the air in front of me.
Still I had as yet no thoughts of retracing my footsteps.
When, at last, I climbed a rocky mound and saw the sun going right away
down behind a hill, like a ball of blood, I made up my mind to get
homewards at once.
But in which direction did the caravan lie? My answer to this was a
very hazy one. However, standing on this mound would not help me, so I
set out to retrace my steps.
For fully half an hour I walked in what I considered the right
direction, but I did not come to the pond again, and the trees seemed
different--more close together, and more weird-looking and uncanny, if
that were possible.