XII 

 UP THE GLEN 



ON an August day, allied to the summer gone 

 by in its cloudless sky and breathless 

 warmth, rather than to the coming autumn with 

 its crisper air and shaded sunlight, I found myself 

 in Kirriemuir. J. M. Barrie was still unhatched 

 I mean in a literary sense and Thrums had not 

 yet wakened from its long sleep to find itself 

 famous. 



This was by no means the only visit. The place 

 has a power to draw me for a distance of ten miles 

 on all sides. Besides, it lies directly in the way of 

 some of my favourite haunts; and I must needs 

 pass through in order to reach them. 



Kirriemuir is on the northern margin of Strath- 

 more the greatest, as its very name implies, and 

 also the quietest of Scots valleys. It is a quaint 



other-worldly town as becomes the site of un- 



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