DECEMBER 289 



Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 

 Whose flocks supply him with attire ; 

 Whose trees in summer yield him shade, 

 In winter fire.' 



Howbeit, trees were scarce in those early days; land- 

 owners were just beginning timidly and tentatively to 

 plant near their houses, and the neighbouring peat-moss 

 (few neighbourhoods were without one or more) was 

 relied on for fuel. Cheerless kindling, you say, and 

 covers the furniture with dust. True, madam, of peat 

 when burnt in a modern grate with front and bottom 

 draught ; but no other fuel so steady, none so fragrant, 

 upon an old-fashioned hearth-stone, which was the 

 regular fireplace in Scottish houses of every grade in 

 the days whereof I am maundering. 



Let me turn aside to tell how the old manner was 

 brought before me only a few years ago. We were 

 fishing a moorland loch, an English friend and I ; it 

 came on a bluster of cold June rain, and we took 

 shelter in the house of him who looked after the boats. 

 His wife (who, by the by, bore the historic name of 

 Hester Stanhope) proposed to bake us some scones for 

 luncheon. Agreed, and down she went on her knees 

 to blow aside a pile of white peat ' stour ' (ashes) which 

 lay on the hearth. Underneath was the live red coal 

 which surprised my Southron companion to see. 'I 

 could have sworn that fire was out,' quoth he; and 

 continued to our hostess, ' How long has that fire been 

 lighted ? ' expecting her to say from five o'clock that 

 morning. I can see the good dame now as, still on her 

 knees, she looked round at him and replied with 

 T 



