Page:Once a Week Volume 8.djvu/624

 616 “Nice hams,” was the dry response.

“Faix, I think I’ll have one, missus!”

“But ye’ll no get ane, my man.”

Pat, nothing daunted, put his foot upon a stool for the purpose of taking one down from the ceiling, where they hung, and he did so boldly, for he saw no one was in the house but the woman and child. With a stern face, however, she suddenly stepped before him, and said:

“Did ony body see ye come in here?”

“The devil a one,” was answered, defiantly.

“And the devil a ane ’ll see ye gang out again! Bring me the axe, lassie!”

In a moment the blackguard was out at the door and off, leaving her to enjoy a hearty laugh at the success of her ruse.

She, poor woman, has had her sorrows. A number of years ago, a son grown to manhood left the house one morning, to look after his flock on the neighbouring fells. A snowstorm had lain for some time, and on that morning a slight thaw had set in. He did not return at his usual hour, and his father, fearing the avalanches that occasionally occur on these hills when a thaw sets in and the snow is deep, went out in search of him. He did not go far, until he, with trembling heart, observed a snow-cleared line down the side of a steep hill which he knew his son had to traverse. With eager steps he made for the glen, and there, in the burn, he found his corpse. The young man had, it was thought, stepped from the ridge of the hill on to the slope, whereby the snow had lost its hold and hurled him down with it.

Nor was this the whole of her misfortunes. Many years ago the father of our respected host was buried by an avalanche in the same locality. He was under the snow sixteen hours. His dog, immediately after he was immersed, came home, and by its restlessness showed something was wrong; but, being near nightfall, friends could make little search. Next day the dog led the way to the place where his master lay, and after some digging he was found,—alive, too,—and in a short time he quite recovered.

When sheep happen to die on these hill-sides, their death-struggles send them nearly all dashing down the slopes into the burns; and when a sheep is wanting, the burns are the first places searched for it, or rather its remains. It is astonishing how rich and green the grass grows on the steepest slopes here, and on these the sheep, from custom, feed and move about with perfect ease.

The Grey Mare’s Tail is a waterfall which, from its shape, is not inappropriately named. When the water which forms the fall is fullish, it would have weight sufficient, with an ordinary fall, to turn a country mill. From this the size of the water may be guessed. The fall is three hundred feet in height, and seems, when approached from below, to tumble from the top of a pretty high hill. The water that supplies the fall comes from Loch Skene, which is one of the wildest, most solitary, and gloomy tarns in the country, two miles or so distant from the Grey Mare’s Tail.

The precipice over which the water dashes is dark and rugged, and in the dark caldron below the loose stones are, from a sort of perpetual motion caused by the action of the water, churned into a round ball shape.

Many years ago, two rash young shepherds thought they could climb the precipice on the left side of the fall. They made the attempt; but when little more than half-way up, the lowermost of the two became giddy, and, with a cry of despair, fell to the bottom, and was killed. A portion of his plaid—a shepherd without his plaid in Scotland is a phenomenon—which a point of rock caught in the descent, hung on the precipice for a number of years after the accident. The other young man got to the top without accident; but he had no heart to remain in the district afterwards, and emigrated. The ascent has been several times made since. A gentleman, now in Keswick, made the ascent one day in presence of a party of friends, including the Ettrick Shepherd. This gentleman’s modus operandi was unique. He first took a shower-bath under the fall, and then, in nature’s apparel, made for the precipice, up which he scrambled monkey fashion.

During the ascent some of the on-lookers were terrified, some of them amused. The gentleman who told us the anecdote was an eyewitness, and his sensations during the ascent, he said, were, according to the place and position of the climber, sometimes those of horror, but oftener of hearty laughter.

The solitude and beauty of all this upland district, both in Yarrow and Upper Moffatdale, are striking; and the charms they seemed to possess for most of the best writers of the early part of the century—drawn partly toward the scene, doubtless, from the genuine ballads and stirring traditions connected with it—may, through their writings and otherwise, have been the means of drawing thousands to the locality. And of these we are certain a large portion will bear away remembrances of wild corries, and fine solitary glens and nooks, green sunny hills and gleaming waterfalls, that will not for many a long day pass into forgetfulness; for, without either tradition or ballad, the district of Yarrow and St. Mary’s

—and her heart is singing A song full of joyous cheer; For each brightening day seems bringing The hope of her life more near.

—her heart is waiting; Its dream is yet unfulfilled: But her trust knows no abating, Though the Spring’s glad song is stilled.

—her heart is burning With the fever of restless fears; And the darkened days returning Bring her no relief save tears.

—her heart is broken: The struggles of Hope are o’er; But the love that was here unspoken Will be hers where hearts bleed no more.