XX 

 WINTER 



IT was nearing the solstice. The shallow arc 

 of day, no deeper than the crescent moon, 

 told of nearness to the border of night. At 

 noon, it barely topped the low ridge. A sub- 

 dued, flushed light, with a certain magic of its 

 own, lay over the land. 



In a series of short, jerky flights, a shadow 

 kept pace with me. It was a tiny shadow, a hop- 

 o'-my-thumb of a bird. He picked me up about 

 a mile out, where the church steeples of the town 

 were dipping out of sight, in the hollow, by the 

 stream. The air and the road were just crisped 

 with frost. Far in the south-west, the sun was 

 dipping over the left shoulder of the Falkland 

 Hill, into Loch Leven. 



The hill forms the eastern end of a short, 

 abrupt range. For no special reason it rises 

 from Strath Eden to break the horizon and hide 

 the winter sun half an hour before the set. Such 

 sudden heights are characteristic of the coal- 

 bearing area of Scotland, sometimes as solitary 

 laws, seldomer as abrupt ranges. None are quite 



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