Stray Leaves from a Border Garden 
carrying away the water-gate, and, indeed, threatening the 
stability of the bridge sometimes. A big tree-trunk was 
once brought down by the flood and wedged beneath 
the bridge, which was promptly attacked by a posse 
of villagers with axes, and literally carved out of its en- 
trenched position, or it would certainly have done for 
our poor little chicken-legged brigg. Once, when there 
chanced to be enough depth of snow, a toboggan-slide was 
arranged in the stubble-field beyond the “ plantin.” Boy 
was all eager curiosity to go on the sled, but, alas, there was 
too little snow, and the inequalities and up-sticking straws 
were found very unpleasant when the final upset came at 
the bottom of the slope. Boy gathered himself up and 
with solemn dignity, slightly impaired by a very much be- 
scratched nose, declined any more rides. “Mo more 
tobog, thank you ! ” I do not like cold weather. I should 
like to hybernate during winter, and only come out like a 
tortoise when the sun shines. I wander up and down the 
wintry paths, so hard and frost-bound, and watch the lazy 
sun, a red ball, disappear early to rest behind the black 
Scotch firs. Then we shut out the cold grey evening, pile 
on the logs, and poke the fire to make “ cat’s light,” and 
try to believe we like winter. What a curious variety there 
is in logs ! — the snapping, brightly burning yews and arbor 
vitae, tough cherry and crisp ivy-tree boughs, like fossil boa 
constrictors, beech and elm, and other local wood I do 
not always recognise at once. Whittier’s description of a 
wood fire and winter fireside is unequalled, I think. I love 
a wood fire, there is such infinite variety about it ! We burn 
our own wood, and it sounds very cheery, I think, on a dull 
day to hear saw and axe at work. The wind rises as the 
evening closes in and wails around shrilly. “ Hark,” says 
some one, “ the Lammermuir pipes ! ” And, indeed, the 
weird music of the wind does at times resemble the sounds 
drawn from that magic instrument of music, the bagpipe, 
so beloved wherever the Scottish tongue is spoken. 
“ Balloon music ” it was once aptly described by a fair 
Hungarian. By the way, how curious it is that both 
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