CLEAR WATERS 



And far away behind Edinburgh and the Pentlands 

 rise the dimmer outlines of the Ochils above Stirling, 

 and fainter still, upon a clear day up on the northern 

 horizon, the blue outlines of the Grampians may be 

 plainly seen. 



But the infant Whiteadder, gathering in the peat 

 mosses at one's feet, turns its back upon all this storied 

 country and heads away through the wild heart of 

 these heath-clad hills for the Merse of Berwickshire, 

 to fall eventually into the Tweed three miles above 

 Berwick. It is the last of its tributaries, and the only 

 purely Scottish river to end its course among English 

 meadows. And if this appears for the moment an 

 anachronism, it will be helpful and not amiss to remind 

 the reader that Berwick town and some four miles of 

 adjacent territory is English ground. Running down 

 through mossy valleys, winding deep among rolling 

 grouse moors, its solitude broken here and there by 

 the homesteads of some vast sheep farms, and swollen 

 by many tributaries, the Whiteadder quickly expands 

 into a good-sized river. A dozen miles from its source, 

 and while still far from the southern brink of the moors, 

 you have to get into the water to compass it con- 

 veniently. So far there is practically not a bush upon 

 the bank, and then comes rushing in the Monynut, a 

 beautiful, semi-wooded burn amazingly full of small 

 fish. Below the confluence the policies and hamlet 

 of Abbey St. Bathans entwine themselves on either 

 bank, a delightful oasis of foliage and sequestered 

 habitations amid the great wild sweep of moor and 

 sheep pasture. Here, chastened in spirit by a low 

 weir, the clear amber-tinged waters in broad, quiet 



34 6 



