ON THE MOUNTAINS 181 



flowering freely enough in the gardens of High- 

 land gamekeepers, who had brought a bit away as 

 they were passing its haunts. 



The alpine catchfly, as it is named, presents 

 a very miniature or fairy semblance of the 

 extremely pretty crimson day-catchfly, abounding 

 in most of our moist woods, and brightening so 

 many of our stream banks ; as if the larger flower 

 had climbed up the hillside, and dwarfed as it 

 rose higher. 



This crimson patch is the goal which, after 

 visiting the rare corners of the glen, and seeing all 

 that grows there, I intend reaching. 



The day is young, and, for so young a day, is 

 used up. It has already parted with its morning 

 freshness if, in the early hours before I was 

 abroad, it ever had any. There is sultriness in 

 the breathless air, and a pitiless glare in the light. 

 A lit haze fills the glen. Even Clova was open 

 and breezy in comparison. If it is thus at eleven, 

 what will it be at two ? is a question I am in a 

 position to answer from my recent experience. 

 And there is less promise of shelter on these bare 

 heights. Already it matters not on which side of 

 a boulder one sits down. 



Moreover, the ascent has become sharper, and 



