Scene: A Highland mountain, clad almost to the summit in purple heather.
On the right a ravine, half hidden by drooping birch trees. On the
left a pine forest. Sheep grazing in the foreground. Smoke upcurling
from a humble cottage in the distance. A shepherd-boy talking to his
dog; between them a lamb is lying on the ground.
"It is dead, Kooran, dead, dead, dead. It is as dead as ever a lamb
was, Kooran. Ay, my doggie, I ken you're sorrowful and anxious, but you
may stand there and lick its little face and legs, till this time the
morn, Kooran, but you can never bring back life to it again.
"What do you say, Kooran? Its eyes are still bright and shinin' and
life-like? True; but wait a wee, Kooran. Yes, wait a wee, dear frien'.
In less than an hour, Kooran, its poor eyes will be glassy enough, and
its bits o' legs as cold and stiff as the crook I'm holding in my hand.
"Let us hide it awa' in under this bush o' whins,--out o' sight of the
poor woeful mother of it. I canna bear to bury it just yet, while the
heart is still warm, but by-and-bye, Kooran; by-and-bye, doggie.
"Yonder comes the mother, Kooran. She has left the flock again."
The sheep bleats.
"Listen, Kooran, listen. What a mournfu' bleat! It makes my blood
creep. And look at her eyes, Kooran. They seem starting out o' the
sockets wi' excitement. Drive her back, Kooran, but _walk_, doggie;
dinna run. Drive her ever so gently. She'll never have her lammie to
trot at her heels again. Gently, Kooran, gently.
"And now, Kooran, off you trot home for the barley scones and the flagon
o' milk. I'll have the lammie buried before you come back, so the sight
of that will trouble you no more. Then we'll have dinner, doggie, and
it is time, too. Look at the sun where it is, right over the highest
peak of Ben Varra. Off you trot, Kooran, and dinna let the grass grow
under your feet till you're back again.
"Heigho! another lammie dead!" The boy was alone now; the faithful dog
had departed at once on his mission. In a bee-line down the mountain's
side went he, feathering along through the grass and the patches of
blooming heather, jumping over boulders, and springing down from rocky
ledges with a daring that would assuredly have proved fatal to any other
kind of dog, save a Highland collie or a Scottish deerhound. Finally he
went splashing through a broad though shallow river, and immediately
after disappeared in a clump of those sweet-scented birch trees that
grow so plentifully in "the land of the mountain and flood."
"Heigho! another lammie dead!"
The boy had gone farther up the hill, and as he spoke he threw himself
down on top of a couch made of heather, dislodging as he did so several
mossy bees that had come to suck the honey from the little purple bells.
Quite a work of art was this couch. It had taken the boy all the
livelong morning and forenoon to make it, Kooran meanwhile trotting
about after him or standing by his side, with one ear pricked up, the
other down, very much interested indeed in the progress of the work, and
apparently sorry that he was only a dog and could not lend a hand.
Wouldst know how this couch was built? First and foremost, then, the
lad had sought out a proper site, flat and smooth, on which to make it.
This was chosen close to a steep-rising rock far up the mountain's side,
and whence he could see not only all the country far and wide, but the
grazing ground of his flock of sheep some distance down beneath him.
Under the rock, but fully exposed to the rays of the summer sun, for
Kenneth was not a bit afraid of spoiling his complexion. Indeed, such
an accident would have been impossible, for neither his face nor his
knees--he wore the Highland garb--could have been one whit browner than
they were. And as for the sun giving him a headache, that was out of
the question--the sun's rays had not the power. For when taking a
_siesta_, as shepherd lads are wont to do sometimes, his favourite
attitude was lying on his back with one arm under his head and his face
upturned to the god of day, for he feared the sun no more than does
yonder eagle that goes circling up and up towards it, even as moths, on
a summer's evening, go wheeling round and round the lamp flame.
A black, bare, bleak-looking rock it was, but canopied over with the
greenest of green moss and trailing saxifrages, bearing tiny flowerets
of pink and white and blue.
Quite a work of art was this heather couch, and as perfect as any one
could wish to see it. Not from any place near to the rock, however, had
the boy pulled the heather with which he formed it. There was something
of the poet and the artist about the lad, and he would never have dreamt
of spoiling the gorgeous purple carpet that grew on the hill immediately
in front of and beneath him. He went farther afield and higher up for
his couch material. And he _cut_ it close off by the roots, for if you
_pull_ heather, then with the roots are sure to come up both moss and
turf.
When he had culled quite an armful, he proceeded to tie it up into
little bundles or sheaves, and so on sheaf after sheaf he manufactured,
singing to himself or talking to Kooran, until he had quite enough to
build his heather sofa withal.
Then he took all his sheaves down to the rock and commenced operations,
placing them side by side close together with the bloom uppermost, and
lo and behold, in less than half an hour, a couch soft and fragrant
enough for the dainty limbs of some fairy queen to recline upon.
It was on this heather bed, then, that Kenneth threw himself at full
length as soon as Kooran had disappeared in the distant birch wood.
For fully a quarter of an hour Kenneth lay looking up at the white-grey
clouds, that were scudding swiftly across the blue of the beautiful sky.
He was wishing he could be up there, up riding on yonder cloud, away
from the earth entirely. "Just for a time, oh! only for a time," he
muttered; "I would come back to my sheep and Kooran. Yonder is a
laverock," (lark). "I can hardly see it, it has flown so high but I can
hear it, and how bonnie it sings as it flutters its wings, and seems to
fan the very clouds. Let me see what the song says. But no, I mustn't
sing, and I mustn't read. Kooran will soon be back wi' the dinner, and
I haven't buried the poor lammie yet."
So saying, he jumped up. He had a spade handy. Alas! much to Kenneth's
sorrow, that spade had been used many times too often this summer, for
it had been a bad season among the sheep. He got the spade, and carried
that and the dead lamb far up above the spot where he had cut the
heather. Here the mountain was split as it were in two, or rather there
were two hills, with a green strath or glen between, formed thousands of
years or ages agone, by the gradual descent of some mighty glacier.
The glade was green and in many places soft, though by no means boggy.
Near a bush Kenneth quickly dug a grave, and with a sigh he laid the
lamb therein, and covered it up, laying the sod down again, so that it
was scarcely discernible from the turf around it.
Then he shouldered his spade and prepared to go back. But remembering
something else, he made a detour and came at last to a patch of whins.
Hidden in a cosy corner close to the ground was a nest well lined with
feathers, and the little bird popped stealthily out as he approached.
"Oh! the beauties," cried the boy, "the bonnie wee `hoties,'" (a kind of
finch). "There were four white and red eggs when I saw you last, and
there lie four naked gorbles, gaping up at me with wide yellow mouths.
Now that nest is easily seen, and if other boys find it when I'm no'
here, they'll kill the young and break the mither's heart. I'll try and
hide it. It's maybe the last nest I'll find this season." As he spoke
he looked about, and soon found a branchlet of withered whins, which he
placed carefully in front of the nest, then took up his spade again and
was about to withdraw, when his eyes lighted on one of those curious
green knolls, that are common enough in some bare mountain glens in the
Scottish Highlands.
"A fairy hill!" he said half aloud. "I do wonder now if there are such
things as fairies, and if on moonlight nights they come oot, and dance
on this green hillock. Oh! wouldn't I like to see them just! I've a
good mind to come and watch here some bonnie night. I could bring
Kooran; I wouldna be feared if Kooran was with me."
He climbed up to the top of the green knoll as he spoke. It was
perfectly round and smooth, and the grass grew softer and greener here
than anywhere else in all the glade. "Why," he said, "here is a hole
near the top for all the world like a lum," (chimney). "Is it possible,
I wonder, that fairies do live inside?"
Down he went now and commenced marching round and round the knoll,
prodding it everywhere as he went with his long sharp spade. The spade
sank deep each time he thrust it in, until he came round to the upper
side, and here it rang against a stone.
The boy went to work with a will, and soon laid that stone bare. It was
merely a large flat slab and quite loose. Kenneth leapt up above it,
and using the spade as a lever, he prised it up, and over it fell,
revealing to the boy's astonished gaze the entrance to a dark cave.
Here was indeed a discovery, and a discovery, too, that dovetailed most
completely and perfectly with this lad's romantic nature.
"Well," he said, "this _is_ something to think about at last. But I
must go to dinner now. Kooran must come with me to explore."
He left his spade and went away singing down the glade, and back to his
heather couch.
But Kooran had not returned, so the lad, giving a look first to see that
the sheep were all right, lay down and took out a volume of songs and
commenced to read. Poetry, however, had lost its charm to-day, for his
mind would, in spite of all he could do, revert to that dark cave in the
fairy knoll. So he threw down the book and gave himself up to the
pleasant occupation of castle-building.
The day was warm and sultry, the bees were humming lazily from heather
bloom to heather bloom, and high up against the fleecy cloudlets the
laverock still fluttered and sang; no wonder Kenneth's eyelids drooped,
and that he soon lost himself in dreams of fairyland.
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Kenneth's mother lived in the long low turf-thatched cottage beyond the
birch wood. He had neither sister nor brother, and for many a long year
his father had been quietly sleeping in the humble little churchyard
that surrounded the ruins of the old parish kirk.
"Oh, Kooran, doggie, here you are," cried Kenneth's mother as the dog
came trotting in, open-mouthed and gasping with the race he had had.
"Here ye are, and I haven't milked the cow yet. But I won't be long,
laddie."
Kooran signified his intention of waiting, and threw himself down on the
kitchen floor, but not before he had lapped up all the cat's milk.
Pussy jumped down from the three-legged stool, near the peat fire, and
began purring and rubbing herself against Ivooran's chin. The cat and
dog were the best of friends; perhaps pussy thought it was good policy
to keep in with Kooran.
As soon as Kenneth's mother had milked the cow, she filled a tin flagon
with the rich white fluid, made up a large parcel of buttered scones and
cheese, tied the whole in a large red napkin, and put it on the floor.
Kooran was up and off before the cat could have winked, had she wanted
to wink.
He took time to recross the stream and held the parcel high up as he did
so, but he did not let the grass grow under his feet, ere he returned to
the spot where he had left his young master. He was not there, but
Kooran soon found him asleep on the fragrant heather couch. The dog
dropped the bundle, sat down and looked at his master, and considered.
This did not wake him, so Kooran gave vent to an impatient whine or two.
As even that did not wake the sleeping boy, the dog licked his cheek,
then clawed at his arm with his paw, and finally Kenneth sat up, rubbed
his eyes, and then burst out laughing.
"What silly dreams I've had," he said, proceeding to undo the knot on
the napkin, "such silly dreams! But go and fetch your dish, doggie."
Kooran trotted off, and was back again in a moment with a tin saucer,
and the scones and milk were shared.
"But oh! Kooran," continued the boy presently, "I've such news for
you."
The dog pricked his ears, and turning his head a little on one side,
looked wondrous wise.
"No," said Kenneth, "it isn't rats, and it isn't rabbits. There is
never anything else in your noddle, Kooran, but rats and rabbits. It's
a cave, Kooran. Of course you don't know what a cave is, but here,--
there is some more dinner for you. Eat that, and then we'll go and
explore."
The boy and his dog started off up the glen immediately after, and
Kooran, knowing there was something on the _tapis_, commenced to frisk
and bark around his young master.
"That won't do, Kooran," said the boy, shaking his finger at his
companion. "Ye mustna do that. Look down there at the sheep; every
single one o' them has stopped eating to snuff the air. Come to heel
and keep quiet."
They soon reached the fairy knoll, and as soon as Kooran saw the hole,
his mind still running on rats and rabbits, he disappeared inside.
Never a rat nor rabbit was there, but several unwholesome-looking bats
came whirring out, and dazzled by the sunlight, dropped into the first
bush they came to. Kenneth himself now entered the cave, spade in hand,
and as soon as his eyes got used to the darkness, he began to examine it
thoroughly. It was large and roomy, the walls and floor of solid stone,
with marks of tools thereon, as if the place had either been wholly
excavated or enlarged by human hands. The light glimmered down the
chimney and fell on some large round brown article. It was a huge
kettle. Then, young though he was, Kenneth knew that at some time or
other this cave had been occupied not by fairies, but by a gang of
smugglers.
"It was wise of them," thought Kenneth, "to use a place like this."
Well might he think so, for even to this day, in remote districts of the
Highlands, so much of superstition clings around these fairy knolls that
no peasant would dare to go near them after nightfall.
Now there is one thing in which Scotland and Germany have long resembled
each other. The very poorest people belonging to the two countries have
from time immemorial been taught to read and write. Kenneth had had the
advantages of an education far superior to most lads of his class and
age. He had spent many a long year at the parish school and evening
school, his mother had taught him, the clergyman's daughter had helped
him, but, better than all this, he had helped himself.
When talking, as must have already been perceived, he sometimes made use
of Scotch words and phrases. He did so, not because he could not speak
pure English, but simply because they are often more expressive than the
Saxon idiom.
"Well, Kooran," said Kenneth, "this is the best find ever we made.
Dinna ye think so, doggie?"
But Kooran's nose was turned up to the roof, and his eyes wide with
excitement, for he perceived, clinging by its claws up there, the
strangest-looking rat ever he had seen in his life before. A rat, and
still not a rat, for it had wings; yes, and it could fly, too, for even
as he gazed it let go its hold and made straight for the doorway.
Kooran was far too quick for it, though. He sprang up, and next moment
it lay half-dead apparently between his two forepaws.
"Strangest thing ever I came across," Kooran appeared to observe as he
looked wonderingly up into his young master's face. "Rats flying; this
_must_ be a fairy knoll, and I feel half afraid."
"That's a bat, Kooran, a bat, boy, and you mustn't touch it. Look at
its two rows of white and glittering wee teeth. Poor little thing!
Kooran, it is well-nigh dead. And this cave really belongs by rights to
that bat and his brothers. We'll tie it up in the napkin, and you shall
carry it home, and mother will cure it and let it fly off again."
As he spoke the boy suited the action to his words.
"Yes, Kooran, this is a grand discovery. After reading `Robinson
Crusoe' so often, I've always wished to have an island all to myself;
but a cave, Kooran, is nearly as good as an island. I wonder what
Dugald McCrane will say about it. I'm sure he will help me to make
things to furnish it, and we'll have our dinner here, Kooran, and a fire
when the weather grows cold, and everything so jolly. Come, we must go
this very evening and see Dugald McCrane."
True to his word, when Kenneth had driven his sheep into their fold for
the night, and had eaten his supper at his mother's fireside, then,
instead of taking down his books and lying down on the great wooden dais
to read by the light of the little black whale-oil lamp, with its wicks
of peeled and dried rushes, he got up whistled to Kooran, and said to
his mother,--
"I'm going down the glen, mother."
"Dinna be lang, laddie, dinna be lang," was all his mother said.
It was a clear moonlight night, all the brighter stars were shining, and
there was hardly a cloud to be seen.
Kenneth had two long Scotch miles to walk, down into a thicket of fir
trees first, across a rustic bridge, under which the brown stream was
dashing and swirling and ever and anon breaking itself into foam against
the boulders. It was very dark down here, but Kenneth was soon away out
into the open country again, and the roar of the river was no more
heard. By-and-bye the road led through a wood of oak, ash, and elm
trees, with now and then the dark head of a pine tree shooting high up
into the sky. The moonlight showed in patches here all along the road,
there was the sound of falling water not far off, mingling with the
whispering of the wind among the leaves, now crisp with the sunshine of
the long bright summer, and there was occasionally the mournful cry of
the brown owl, which made Kenneth feel lonesome and "eerie," and he was
not sorry when he was clear of that dark gloomy wood, and saw up on a
hillside the light shining yellow through the blind of Keeper McCrane's
cottage.
A black retriever came rushing down, growling and showing his teeth, but
when he saw it was Kenneth he wagged his bell-rope of a tail, and bade
him and Kooran welcome.
Kenneth left his dog in the garden to dance and caper about with the
retriever. No doubt Kooran told this black dog all about the flying
rats. Kenneth just opened the door and walked straight in.
Both Dugald and his young wife jumped up from their seats beside the
fire, and welcomed Kenneth, and their only boy, a wonderful little
fellow of some nine or ten summers old, with hair not unlike in colour
to a bundle of oaten straw, got out of bed and ran to pull Kenneth by
the jacket, without waiting to dress.
Dugald and his wife and boy all listened with wondering eyes to the
story of the fairy knoll.
"Bless me, dear laddie," said Mrs McCrane, "were you no' afraid to
venture in?"
"I'll tell you what we'll do," said the keeper. "We'll go up the glen
and see the old witch wife, Nancy Dobbell. She can tell us all about
it. They tell me she knows everything that ever happened for a hundred
years back and more."
"Will she no' be in bed?" said his wife.
"In bed?" said Dugald. "Not she. She never goes to bed till `the wee
short hour ayont the twal,' and there is no saying what she may be doing
till then."
"Well, let us go," cried Kenneth, starting up.
One glance at the walls of the room in Dugald's cottage, that did duty
as both kitchen and dining-hall, would have given a stranger an insight
into both the character and calling of the chief inmate. Never a
picture adorned the room, but dried grasses and ferns did duty instead,
and here were the skins of every kind of wild animal and bird to be
found in the wilds of the Scottish Highlands, the foumart or polecat,
the whitterit or weasel, the wild cat and fox, ptarmigan, plovers of
every kind, including the great whaup or curlew, hawks, owls, and even
the golden-headed eagle itself stood stuffed in a corner, with glaring
fiery eyes and wings half outspread.
"Come," said Dugald.
And away went the keeper and Kenneth, the two dogs following closely at
their masters' heels, as if to protect them from all harm.