Charm. 



The woven in a magic web. In the mornings, the 



Mountain gossamer hangs on every bush of gorse and 

 juniper. Through the serene air, exquisitely 

 fresh with the light frosts which from dayset 

 to dawn have fallen idly, rings the sweet and 

 thrilling song of the robin, that music of 

 autumn so poignant, so infinitely winsome. 

 In what lovely words our Elizabethan Chap- 

 man wrote of the robin, of which we also of 

 the North speak lovingly as 'St. Colum's 

 Friend,' « St. Bride's Sweetheart,' and the 

 ' little brother of Christ ' : 



" the bird that loves humans best, 



That hath the bugle eyes and ruddy breast, 

 And is the yellow autumn's nightingale." 



But it is in June, I think, that the mountain 

 charm is most intoxicating. The airs are 

 lightsome. The hill-mists are seldom heavy, 

 and only on south-wind mornings do the lovely 

 grey-white vapours linger among the climbing 

 corries and overhanging scarps. Many of the 

 slopes are blue as a winter sky, palely blue, 

 aerially delicate, from the incalculable myriad 

 host of the bluebells. The green of the bracken 

 is more wonderful than at any other time. 

 When the wind plays upon it the rise and fall 

 is as the breathing of the green seas among 

 the caverns of Mingulay or among the savage 



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