CHAPTER XVI 



THE LOCHAN OF THE RED-THROATED DIVER 



On a lochan, set high among the western hills and remote 

 from the haunt of man, a pair of red-throated divers have 

 their summer home. 



During months of winter the lochan is held in the grip 

 of the frost, and all the grasses of the boggy plateau are 

 browned and scorched by the bitter winds from the north. 

 But the divers have never seen their country thus, for it 

 is not until the uncertain spring has given place to glori- 

 ous days of June, when the sun is high in the heavens 

 and all nature is glad to live, that they arrive at the 

 lochan. 



I recall to mind a June day, near midsummer, when, 

 accompanied by a kindred nature lover, I made my way 

 to the lochan. The coming of summer was backward that 

 year — May had brought with it a succession of northerly 

 winds, with no warmth in their breath, and the hills still 

 held their covering of snow. Even with the coming of 

 June the air remained chill, but to-day, the longest of the 

 year, the morning breaks calm and mild. On the hills 

 the mist lingers, hiding from view their higher corries, 

 but with the strengthening of the sun the sky clears, and 

 in the air is a warmth unknown for many a day. 



From the veteran stalker's house at sea level, the path 

 to the lochan rises abruptly, winding its way up a steep 

 hillside facing full to the south. The hot sun draws out 

 many delightful scents from the mountain vegetation. The 

 perfume of the bog-myrtle's opening leaves, the scent of 

 the youthful bracken fronds, of heather and young grasses, 

 all lie on the still air and charm the senses. On the top 



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