CHAPTER XVI.

DRIED ROSE LEAVES.

Townspeople are so clever, and know so much, that it is only just
something should be hidden from their sight, and it is quite certain
that they do not understand the irresistible and endless fascination of
the country. They love to visit us in early autumn, and are vastly
charmed with the honeysuckle in the hedges, and the corn turning
yellow, and the rivers singing in the sunlight, and the purple on the
hill-side. It is then that the dweller in cities resolves to retire,
as soon as may be, from dust and crowds and turmoil and hurry, to some
cottage where the scent of roses comes in at the open window, and one
is wakened of a morning by the birds singing in the ivy. When the corn
is gathered into the stack-yard, and the leaves fall on the road, and
the air has a touch of frost, and the evenings draw in, then the
townsman begins to shiver and bethink him of his home. He leaves the
fading glory with a sense of relief, like one escaping from approaching
calamity, and as often as his thoughts turn thither, he pities us in
our winter solitude. "What a day this will be in Drumtochty," he says,
coming in from the slushy streets, and rubbing his hands before the
fire.

This good man is thankful to Providence for very slight mercies, since
he knows only one out of the four seasons that make our glorious year.
He had been wise to visit us in the summer-time, when the light hardly
dies out of the Glen, and the grass and young corn presents six shades
of green, and the scent of the hay is everywhere, and all young
creatures are finding themselves with joy. Perhaps he had done better
to have come north in our spring-time, when nature, throwing off the
yoke of winter, bursts suddenly into an altogether indescribable
greenery, and the primroses are blooming in Tochty woods, and every
cottage garden is sweet with wallflowers, and the birds sing of love in
every wood, and the sower goes forth to sow. And though this will
appear quite incredible, it had done this comfortable citizen much good
to have made his will, and risked his life with us in the big snowstorm
that used to shut us up for fourteen days every February. One might
well endure many hardships to stand on the side of Ben Urtach, and see
the land one glittering expanse of white on to the great strath on the
left, and the hills above Dunleith on the right, to tramp all day
through the dry, crisp snow, and gathering round the wood