r. Its chief source was, we believe, the Brother
Loch. But it whimpled with such an infantine voice from the lucid bay,
which then knew nor sluice nor dam, that for a while it was scarcely
even a rill, and you had to seek for it among the heather. In doing so,
ten to one some brooding birdie fluttered off her nest--but not till
your next step would have crushed them all--or perhaps--but he had no
nest there--a snipe. There it is--betrayed by a line of livelier
verdure. Ere long it sparkled within banks of its own and "braes of
green bracken," and as you footed along, shoals of minnows, and perhaps
a small trout or two, brastled away to the other side of the shallow,
and hid themselves in the shadows. 'Tis a pretty rill now--nor any
longer mute; and you hear it murmur. It has acquired confidence on its
course, and has formed itself into its first pool--a waterfall, three
feet high, with its own tiny rocks, and a single birk--no, it is a
rowan--too young yet to bear berries--else might a child pluck the
highest cluster. Imperceptibly, insensibly, it grows just like life. The
Burn is now in his boyhood; and a bold, bright boy he is--dancing and
singing--nor heeding which way he goes along the wild, any more than
that wee rosy-cheeked, flaxen-headed girl seems to heed, who drops you a
curtsy, and on being asked by you, with your hand on her hair, where she
is going, answers wi' a soft Scottish accent--ah! how sweet--"Owre the
hill to see my Mither." Is that a house? No--a fauld. For this is the
Washing-Pool. Look around you, and you never saw such perfectly white
sheep. They are Cheviots; for the black-faces are on the higher hills to
the north of the moor. We see a few rigs of flax--and "lint is in the
bell"--the steeping whereof will sadly annoy the bit burnie, but poor
people must spin--and as this is not the season, we will think of
nothing that can pollute his limpid waters. Symptoms of husbandry!
Potato-shaws luxuriating on lazy-beds, and a small field with alternate
rigs of oats and barley. Yes, that is a house--"an auld clay
bigging,"--in such Robin Burns was born--in such was rocked the cradle
of Pollok. We think we hear two separate liquid voices--and we are
right--for from the flats beyond Floak, and away towards Kingswells,
comes another yet wilder burnie, and they meet in one at the head of
what you would probably call a meadow, but which we call a holm. There
seems to be more arable land hereabouts than a strang