Pittsburg dispatch. [volume] (Pittsburg [Pa.]) 1880-1923, 1891-02-07


some trees. The road led round the head Of
a small loch, whose placid rain-stung waters
Tapped upon q fiat shore of mud and fine
gravel, with little tufts of harsh grass at in
tervals At the farther end the ground rose
slightly in heathery hillock, on which two
giant fir trees stood, black, sharp, silhouetted
in marked contrast upon the white-gray
landscape.
The driver broke into some long knotty
speech in his own powerful idiom, from
which Tom, who had fair understanding OF
the natives, and boasted Scotch blood, sifted
the facts that the land now covered by the
'lochen" had been forest, and the "old
laird" (not Malcolm, who was only owner
by tree as his e1chequer grew lower. There
had been a saying in the district whose
origin none knew; it had been:
Haud your hand from Gowan wood,
Or seek your death in Gowan flood;
and it had come true. The old laird had
been found lying on his face in the shallow
water which had issued from the peat, fill
ing the pits the burnt tree holes had left,
and now forming the Black Lochen, or, in
Gaelic phrase. Lochendhu.
Both young men listened to this piece
Of superstition, and asked a few
questions as to how the old laird
had got in there and why he hadn't
got out. But the driver, though strenu-
ously denying that he made anything of
such talk" could give no explanation, and
adhered to his belief in the powers of some
supernatural agency.
(. Once inside the lodge, and warming them
selves before bright fire, the Sassenach
sportsmen forget about the lochen, the
legend, and even the sentinel frs that
seemed to look reproachfully on the glisten-
ing expanse of water lying on the graves of
their fellows. There were the dogs to look
at, the keeper TO interview, shooting boots to
have creased, cartridge cases to fill, and leg
gings to find. This kept them busy enough;
and we NAV seize a moment to sketch them
roughly for the reader.
John Latham was a Woodworking bar
rister, without much endowment of this
worlds goods, but having very sound head
on his shoulders. Tom Sinclair was bar
rister also, and idled almost as hard as his
friend worked. He was continually want
ing a week off or a day or two's rest to set
him up after an exhausting round of
pleasure. The sum of his professional earn
ings since he had been called was guineas
exactly, but he had 700 year of his own,
Just enough to make life in chambers toler-
ably pleasant. Circumstances were ac-
countable for the friendship between the
two; since, had Latham's room not been on
Sinclair's stair at Trinity, they would most
likely never have come together.
1t was Sunday afternoon, four days later,
when they again found themselves in the
hired gig, this time driving along a lovely
hill road towards Ardmuir. 1t would have
been a perfect day for walk; the air was
fresh and clear, sweet with the honey smell
of thyme and purple heather, and on the
highest hilltop no mist fingered; still, after
four DAYS hard shooting and moor tramp
Ing, our sportsmen were glad of the gig. A
basket lounge under the beeches of Ardmuir,
with Margaret Bruce pouring out tea for
them, was a very acceptable change. OF
course they stayed to dinner, and accepted
an invitation from Robert Bruce, the eldest
son, to try their as yet untouched grouse
moor on Ben Arie.
"No one ever begins the season upon it,"
Young Bruce explained; "the heather
flowers later, and the birds are always back
ward. Suppose we say Wednesday,"
They were delighted to say Wednesday,
and further, to accept gentle Mrs. Bruce's
invitation to drive over to dinner on Tues
day night, and bring their shooting clothes,
so as to start fresh in the morning. Then
return visit from Robert and his friend,
Captain Sawles, to the lesser Joys of Penny
gowan was promised; and the young men
drove home under a silver moon, which
sent floods of radiance pouring down glen
or hid coyly behind dark hilltop In most
enchanting wise.
"Hullol Look at the frsP exclaimed
Tom, as they turned sharp corner and
Joined the road by the loch-side. 'How
queer they look with their long shadows in
the wuterl l vote we 60 out there some
night when the moons up, eh?'
Latham assented vaguely.
Tne scene had strange ,scination for him.
he stared 6Iedly at the fat piece of water-
a sheet of shining metal in the moonlight,
with the faithful image of the spiral pines
reflected in it-till his eyes grew strained
and lost the power Of sight. Browning's