95 

 THIRST. 



Hunger^s naething till thrust. Ance in the middle o^ the muir 

 o' Rannoch I had near dee'd o' thrust. I was crossing Loch 

 Ericht fit to the heed o' Glenorchy, and got in amang the hags, 

 that for leagues and leagues a' round that dismal region seem 

 howked out o' the black moss by demons doomed to dreary days- 

 dargs for their sins in the wilderness. There was naething for't 

 but lowp — lowp — lowpin^ out o^ ae pit intil anither — hour after 

 hour — till, sair forfeuchen, I feenally gied mysel' up for lost. 

 Drought had sooked up the pools, and left their cracked bottoms 

 barkened in the heat. The heather was sliddery as ice, aneath 

 that torrid zone. Sic a sun ! No ae clud on a' the sky glitterin' 

 wi' wirewoven sultriness ! The howe o' the lift was like a great 

 cawdron pabblin' into the boil ower a slow fire. The element o' 

 water seemed dried up out o' natur, a' except the big draps o' 

 sweat that plashed doon on my fever*d hauns that began to trum- 

 mle like leaves o' aspen. My mouth was made o* cork covered 

 wi* dust — lips, tongue, palate, and a', doon till my throat and 

 stammack. I spak — and the arid soun^ was as if a buried corpse 

 had tried to mutter through the smotherin' mouls. I thocht on 

 the tongue of a parrot. The central lands o' Africa, whare lions 

 gang ragin^ mad for water, when cheated out o' blood, canna be 

 worse — dreamed I in a species o' delirium — than this dungeon'd 

 desert. Oh ! but a drap o' dew would hae seemed then pregnant 

 wi' salvation ! — a shower out o^ the windows o' heaven, like the 

 direct gift o* God. Rain ! Rain f Rain ! what a world of life in 

 that sma' word ! But the atmosphere look'd as if it would never 

 melt iTfiair, intrenched against a' liquidity by brazen barriers burnin' 

 in the sun. Spittle I had nane — and when in desperation I 

 sooked the heather, 'twas frush and fusionless, as if withered by 

 lichtenin', and a' sap had left the vegetable creation. What'n a 

 cursed fule was I — for in a rage I fear I swore inwardly, (heev'n 

 forgie me,) that I did na at the last change-house put into my 

 pooch a bottle o' whiskey! I fan' my pulse — and it was thin — 

 thin — thin — sma' — sma' — sma' — noo nane ava' — and then a flut- 

 ter that tel't tales o' the exhausted heart. I grat. Then shame 

 came to my relief — shame even in that utter solitude. 



Somewhere or ither in the muir I knew there was a loch, and 

 I took out my map. But the infernal idewit that had planned it 

 had na alloo'd a yellow circle o' aboun six inches square for a' 

 Perthshire. What's become o' a' the birds — thoclit I — and the 



