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 curio