AMONG THE SOUTHERN UPLANDS 217 



an alpine as we are likely to find. Since there can 

 be no rivalry between a moss and a wild flower, 

 Wiridlestrae also appears on my map as " Cloud- 

 berry Hill." 



A very early hour of the second morning after 

 finds me dropping behind a curtaining ridge, out 

 of sight of the placid Tweed. Before me, a 

 pastoral region slopes down to form the banks of 

 the stream, and melts away over the gently 

 rounded hilltops. 



The vale is suggestive of undefined emotions 

 and pensive thoughts. Appealing to the imagin- 

 ative and impressionable of bygone days, it has 

 found utterance in sad and tragic ballads. Who 

 says that a scene may not have a character ? Is 

 it fancy that there are lines of ineffaceable sorrow ? 

 I sit down by Yarrow-side to rest. The way left 

 behind, though not long, only ten miles, needed 

 a good deal of stiff climbing. 



The whole morning had been delightful. As yet 

 there is no hint of change to quicken the pace 

 only a little mist on the distant hills ahead, 

 whence the gentle airs come. A leisurely saunter 

 along the even ground will be a pleasant contrast 

 to the ups and downs. 



The lake is a part, the eye of the scene. As in the 



