GRAY BRIG 137 



hush of that still world of snow. Even 

 the old shepherd, who has passed that 

 way more often than he can ever remem- 

 ber, allows his flock to graze at will, and 

 looks over upon 



" .... the flood below, 

 Whose ripples, through the weeds of oily 



green, 

 Like happy travellers chatter as they go." 



When evening comes, more than at 

 any other time does the "Auld Gray 

 Brig' ' give up her secrets. Like the flick- 

 ering of the flames in some cosy ingle- 

 nook the fires of the crimson west that 

 are mirrored in the current send little 

 shafts of light into the gathering shades. 

 Well-remembered faces come out of the 

 far darkness, voices out of the empty 

 silence. Vacant places are filled again, 

 and the good old times which seem " so 

 much older than any history " return 

 again with a weird familiarity. 



And every year, when the wild thyme 



