CHAPTER XXII 



EVENING ON TWEED 



ALL day we have been inconsolable, tired of 

 the stifling heat, stung by the glare of the 

 dusty road, whiling away hours under the 

 shade of drooping trees beside Tweed's fair river, 

 now no more than a prattling stream. We might 

 have summoned up sufficient energy to repair 

 to Yarrow or Ettrick or the pleasant waters of 

 the Cheviots, but these have well-nigh disappeared, 

 and their trout, the few that have eluded the vigi- 

 lant poacher, have resolved to remain in close 

 hiding, until rain comes to restore their confidence 

 and allay their fears. 



The sun is slowly sinking to rest behind the 

 triple crown of Eildon as we walk quietly down 

 towards Mertoun Bridge, where begins a fine series 

 of grand streams. On the way there is much 

 to interrupt anticipation. A weasel lopes across 

 the sun-browned grassy track, making an easy 

 burden of a baby rabbit ; a cock pheasant rises 

 heavily at our feet, and with a rattle of wings 

 hastes to the shelter of the trees ; the grey heron, 

 standing motionless in the dancing shallow, allows 

 us to approach within a hundred yards and with 

 a harsh protesting croak flaps away to roost. The 

 gulls are screeching merrily what a crowd of 



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