Freaks on the Fells: Three Months' Rustication, R. M. Ballantyne [read dune .txt] 📗
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «Freaks on the Fells: Three Months' Rustication, R. M. Ballantyne [read dune .txt] 📗». Author R. M. Ballantyne
“A fine day, friend,” said Mr Sudberry.
“Oo, ay, it is a fine day.”
He also passed on.
Another turn in the road, and Mr Sudberry met a drove of shaggy cattle, each cow of which looked sturdy and fierce enough for any ordinary bull; while the bull himself was something awful to look upon. There is nothing ladylike or at all feminine in the aspect of a Highland cow!
Mr Sudberry politely stepped to one side, and made way for them. Many of the animals paused for an instant, and gazed at the Englishman with profound gravity, and then went on their way with an air that showed they evidently could make nothing of him. The drover thought otherwise, for he stopped.
“Coot-tay to you, sir.”
“Good-day, friend, good-day. Splendid weather for the—for the—”
Mr Sudberry did not know exactly for which department of agriculture the weather was most favourable, so he said—“for the cattle.”
“Oo, ay, the w’ather’s no that ill. Can she tell the time o’ day?”
Out came the compass.
“West-nor’-west, and by—Oh! I beg your pardon,” (pulling out his watch and replacing the compass), “a quarter-past two.”
The drover passed on, and Mr Sudberry, chuckling at his mistake, took the bearings of a tall pine that grew on a distant knoll.
On gaining the outskirts of the village, Mr Sudberry felt a sensation of hunger, and instantly resolved to purchase a bun, which article he had now learned to call by its native name of “cookie.” At the same instant a bright idea struck him—he would steer for the baker’s shop by compass! He knew the position of the shop exactly—the milestone gave him the distance—he would lay his course for it. He would walk conscientiously with his eyes on the ground, except when it was necessary to refer to the compass, and he would not raise them until he stood within the shop. It would be a triumphant exhibition of the practical purposes, in a small way, to which the instrument might be applied.
Full of this idea, he took a careful observation of the compass, the sun, and surrounding nature; laid his course for the baker’s shop, which was on the right side of the village, and walked straight into the butcher’s, which lay on its left extremity. He was so much put out on lifting his eyes to those of the butcher, that he ordered a leg of mutton and six pounds of beefsteaks on the spot. The moment after, he recollected that two legs of mutton and a round of beef had been forwarded to the White House by coach the day before, and that there was a poached brace of moor-fowl in the larder at that moment; but, having given the order in a prompt, business tone of voice, he felt that he lacked moral courage to rescind it.
“Ye’ll ha’e frien’s comin’ to veesit ye,” observed the butcher, who was gifted with a peculiar and far-sighted faculty of “putting that and that together.”
“No; we have no immediate prospect of such a pleasure.”
“Ay? Hum! it’s wonderfu’ what an appeteet the hill air gives to strangers.”
“A tremendous appetite! Good-day, friend.”
Mr Sudberry said this heartily, and went off to the baker’s—by dead reckoning—discomfited but chuckling.
The butcher pondered and philosophised over the subject the remainder of the afternoon with much curiosity, but with no success. Had the wisdom of Plato been mingled with his Scotch philosophy, the compound reduced to an essential oil of investigative profundity, and brought to bear on the subject in question, he would have signally failed to discover the reason of the Sudberrys’ larder being crammed that week with an unreasonable quantity of butcher-meat.
Yes! during these three weeks of sunshine the Sudberrys made hay of their time as diligently as the McAllisters made hay of their grass, and the compasses played a prominent part in all their doings, and led them into many scrapes. Among other things, they led them to Glen Ogle. More of this in the next chapter.
Without entering into minute comparisons, it may be truly said that Glen Ogle is one of the grandest and wildest of mountain passes in the highlands of Perthshire. Unlike the Trossachs, which Sir Walter Scott has immortalised in his “Lady of the Lake,” Glen Ogle is a wild, rugged, rocky pass, almost entirely destitute of trees, except at its lower extremity; and of shrubs, except along the banks of the little burn which meanders like a silver thread down the centre of the glen. High precipitous mountains rise on either hand—those on the left being more rugged and steep than those on the right. The glen is very narrow throughout—a circumstance which adds to its wildness; and which, in gloomy weather, imparts to the spot a truly savage aspect. Masses of débris and fallen rocks line the base of the precipices, or speckle the sides of the mountains in places where the slopes, being less precipitous than elsewhere, have served to check the fallen matter; and the whole surface of the narrow vale is dotted with rocks of various sizes, which have bounded from the cliffs, and, overleaping every obstacle, have found a final resting-place on a level with the little stream.
The road follows the course of the stream at the foot of the glen; but, as it advances, it ascends the mountains on the right, and runs along their sides until the head of the pass is gained. Here it crosses, by means of a rude stone bridge, a deep chasm, at the bottom of which the waters of the burn leap and roar among chaotic rocks—a foretaste of the innumerable rushes, leaps, tumbles, and plunges, which await them all down the glen. Just beyond this bridge is a small level patch of mingled rocky and mossy ground. It is the summit of the mountain ridge; yet the highest peaks rise above it, and so hem it in that it resembles the arena of a rude amphitheatre. In the centre of this spot lies a clear, still lake, or tarn, not more than a hundred yards in diameter. This is the fountain-head of two streams. From the pools and springs, within a stone’s cast of the tarn, arise the infant waters of the burn already mentioned, which, descending Glen Ogle, find their way to the Firth of Tay, through Strath Earn. From the opposite side of the tarn issues another brook, which, leaping down the other side of the mountains, mingles its waters with Loch Tay, and finds its way, by a much more circuitous route, to the same firth. The whole region is desolate and lonely in the extreme, and so wild that a Rocky Mountain hunter, transported thither by fairy power, might find himself quite at home, except in the matter of big-horned goats and grisly bears. But, for the matter of that, he would find mountain sheep with very respectable horns in their way; and, as to bears, the hill-sides are bare enough to satisfy any hunter of moderate expectations.
Up to this elevated tarn, among the hoary mountain peaks, the Sudberry Family struggled one hot, sunny, lovely forenoon. Bent on a long and bold flight, they had travelled by the stage-coach to the foot of the glen, near the head of Loch Earn. Here they were deposited at the door of a picturesque white-washed house, which was styled the Inn, and from this point they toiled up the glen on foot, intoxicating themselves on the way with deep draughts of mingled excitement, fresh air, and romance.
The whole family were out upon this occasion, including Mrs Brown, Hobbs, and Peter. The delicate Tilly was also there, and to her Master Jacky devoted himself with an assiduity worthy of even a good boy. He took occasion several times, however, to tell Peter, in a grave way, that, whenever he felt tired, he would be glad to carry his basket for him, and himself too, for the matter of that, if he should get quite knocked up. He indemnified himself for these concessions on the side of virtue by inflicting various little torments on the bodies and minds of Mrs Brown and his mother, such as hiding himself at some distance ahead, and suddenly darting out from behind a rock with a hideous yell; or coming up behind with eyes staring and hair flying, and screaming “mad bull,” with all the force of his lungs.
Hector and Flora Macdonald were also of the party. George and Fred were particularly attentive to Flora, and Hector was ditto to Lucy. He carried her botanical box, and gave her a good deal of information in regard to plants and wild flowers, in which Lucy professed a deep interest, insomuch that she stopped frequently to gather specimens and listen to Hector’s learned observations, until they were more than once left a considerable way behind the rest of the party. Indeed, Lucy’s interest in science was so great that she unwittingly pulled two or three extremely rare specimens to pieces while listening to these eloquent discourses, and was only made conscious of her wickedness by a laughing remark from Hector that she “must surely have the bump of destructiveness largely developed.”
Arrived at the tarn, each individual deposited his and her basket or bundle on a selected spot of dry ground, and the ladies began to spread out the viands, while Mr Sudberry took the exact bearings of the spot by compass. While thus philosophically engaged, he observed that fish were rising in the tarn.
“Hallo! Hector; why, I see fish in the pond.”
“True,” replied the young man, “plenty of trout; but they are small.”
“I’ll fish,” said Mr Sudberry.
“So will I,” cried George.
And fish they did for half an hour, at the end of which period they were forcibly torn away from the water-side and made to sit down and eat sandwiches—having caught between them two dozen of trout, the largest of which was about five inches long.
“Why, how did ever the creatures get up into such a lake?” inquired Mr Sudberry, eyeing the trout in surprise: “they could never jump up all the waterfalls that we have passed to-day.”
“I suppose they were born in the lake,” suggested Hector, with a smile.
“Born in it?” murmured Mr Sudberry, pondering the idea; “but the first ones could not have been born in it. How did the first ones get there?”
“The same way as what the first fishes came into the sea, of course,” said Jacky, looking very pompous.
Unfortunately he unintentionally tried to perform that impossible feat which is called swallowing a crumb down the wrong throat, thereby nearly choking himself; and throwing his mother into a flutter of agitation.
There was something so exhilarating in the atmosphere of that elevated region that none of the party felt inclined to waste much time over luncheon. Mr Sudberry, in particular, was very restless and migratory. His fishing propensities had been aroused, and could not be quieted. He had, in the course of a quarter of an hour, gobbled what he deemed it his duty to eat and drink, and, during the remainder of the meal, had insisted on helping everybody to everything, moving
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