II

Two years passed, and April came with her suns and rains and again the

waters brimmed full in the valleys. Under the clear, shining sky the

lambing went on, and the faint bleat of sheep brooded on the hills. In

a land of young heather and green upland meads, of faint odours of

moor-burn, and hill-tops falling in clear ridges to the sky-line, the

veriest St. Anthony would not abide indoors; so I flung all else to the

winds and went a-fishing.

At the first pool on the Callowa, where the great flood sweeps nobly

round a ragged shoulder of hill, and spreads into broad deeps beneath a

tangle of birches, I began my toils. The turf was still wet with dew

and the young leaves gleamed in the glow of morning. Far up the stream

rose the grim hills which hem the mosses and tarns of that tableland,

whence flow the greater waters of the countryside. An ineffable

freshness, as of the morning alike of the day and the seasons, filled

the clear hill-air, and the remote peaks gave the needed touch of

intangible romance.

But as I fished I came on a man sitting in a green dell, busy at the

making of brooms. I knew his face and dress, for who could forget such

eclectic raggedness?--and I remembered that day two years before when

he first hobbled into my ken. Now, as I saw him there, I was

captivated by the nameless mystery of his appearance. There was

something startling to one accustomed to the lack-lustre gaze of

town-bred folk, in the sight of an eye as keen and wild as a hawk's

from sheer solitude and lonely travelling. He was so bent and scarred

with weather that he seemed as much a part of that woodland place as

the birks themselves, and the noise of his labours did not startle the

birds that hopped on the branches.

Little by little I won his acquaintance--by a chance reminiscence, a

single tale, the mention of a friend. Then he made me free of his

knowledge, and my fishing fared well that day. He dragged me up little

streams to sequestered pools, where I had astonishing success; and then

back to some great swirl in the Callowa where he had seen monstrous

takes. And all the while he delighted me with his talk, of men and

things, of weather and place, pitched high in his thin, old voice, and

garnished with many tones of lingering sentiment. He spoke in a broad,

slow Scots, with so quaint a lilt in his speech that one seemed to be

in an elder time among people of a quieter life and a quainter

kindliness.

Then by chance I asked him of a burn of which I had heard, and how it

might be reached. I shall never forget the tone of his answer as his

face grew eager and he poured forth his knowledge.

"Ye'll gang up the Knowe Burn, which comes down into the Cauldshaw.

It's a wee tricklin' thing, trowin' in and out o' pools i' the rock,

and comin' doun out o' the side o' Caerfraun. Yince a merrymaiden

bided there, I've heard folks say, and used to win the sheep frae the

Cauldshaw herd, and bile them i' the muckle pool below the fa'. They

say that there's a road to the ill Place there, and when the Deil likit

he sent up the lowe and garred the water faem and fizzle like an auld

kettle. But if ye're gaun to the Colm Burn ye maun haud atower the rig

o' the hill frae the Knowe heid, and ye'll come to it wimplin' among

green brae faces. It's a bonny bit, rale lonesome, but awfu' bonny,

and there's mony braw trout in its siller flow."

Then I remembered all I had heard of the old man's craze, and I

humoured him. "It's a fine countryside for burns," I said.

"Ye may say that," said he gladly, "a weel-watered land. But a' this

braw south country is the same. I've traivelled frae the Yeavering

Hill in the Cheviots to the Caldons in Galloway, and it's a' the same.

When I was young, I've seen me gang north to the Hielands and doun to

the English lawlands, but now that I'm gettin' auld I maun bide i' the

yae place. There's no a burn in the South I dinna ken, and I never cam

to the water I couldna ford."

"No?" said I. "I've seen you at the ford o' Clachlands in the Lammas

floods."

"Often I've been there," he went on, speaking like one calling up vague

memories. "Yince, when Tam Rorison was drooned, honest man. Yince

again, when the brigs were ta'en awa', and the Black House o'

Clachlands had nae bread for a week. But oh, Clachlands is a bit easy

water. But I've seen the muckle Aller come roarin' sae high that it

washed awa' a sheepfold that stood weel up on the hill. And I've seen

this verra burn, this bonny clear Callowa, lyin' like a loch for miles

i' the haugh. But I never heeds a spate, for if a man just kens the

way o't it's a canny, hairmless thing. I couldna wish to dee better

than just be happit i' the waters o' my ain countryside, when my legs

fail and I'm ower auld for the trampin'."

Something in that queer figure in the setting of the hills struck a

note of curious pathos. And towards evening as we returned down the

glen the note grew keener. A spring sunset of gold and crimson flamed

in our backs and turned the clear pools to fire. Far off down the vale

the plains and the sea gleamed half in shadow. Somehow in the

fragrance and colour and the delectable crooning of the stream, the

fantastic and the dim seemed tangible and present, and high sentiment

revelled for once in my prosaic heart.

And still more in the breast of my companion. He stopped and sniffed

the evening air, as he looked far over hill and dale and then back to

the great hills above us. "Yen's Crappel, and Caerdon, and the Laigh

Law," he said, lingering with relish over each name, "and the Gled

comes doun atween them. I haena been there for a twalmonth, and I maun

hae anither glisk o't, for it's a braw place." And then some bitter

thought seemed to seize him, and his mouth twitched. "I'm an auld

man," he cried, "and I canna see ye a' again. There's burns and mair

burns in the high hills that I'll never win to." Then he remembered my

presence, and stopped. "Ye maunna mind me," he said huskily, "but the

sicht o' a' thae lang blue hills makes me daft, now that I've faun i'

the vale o' years. Yince I was young and could get where I wantit, but

now I am auld and maun bide i' the same bit. And I'm aye thinkin' o'

the waters I've been to, and the green heichs and howes and the linns

that I canna win to again. I maun e'en be content wi' the Callowa,

which is as guid as the best."

And then I left him, wandering down by the streamside and telling his

crazy meditations to himself.