CHAPTER XVI 



August on the Moors: The Days Work 



HPHE diamond of the moors bubbles up in a secluded 

 * nook that you see nothing of until you stumble 

 right in. Sheltered under the hanging shoulder of the 

 mountain, from the precipice above you surmise nothing 

 of the peaceful sanctuary beneath your feet. The very 

 winds that search each cranny of the Highland corries 

 might be puzzled to find their way to it ; and the 

 worst chance of discovery lies in the streamlet that 

 trickles down from the fountain turning traitor, and 

 the streamlet keeps a quiet tongue in its head as it 

 steals down in the groove it has worn beneath the 

 hanging bracken. In the daytime the place is tranquil 

 enough ; the slumbering silence broken only by the 

 low twitter of the whinchat or the piping of the water- 

 ousel. In the night it might be otherwise were mortal 

 ever there to listen, and, doubtless, you would hear the 

 sad cry of the martin cat and wild cat from the loose- 

 heaped, bracken-thatched boulders where they kennel 

 with the mountain foxes. At present, when you make 

 your way in, the only occupants are a hoary-headed 

 raven, hopping about most perfectly at home, as if he 



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