Bog-Myrtle and Peat: Tales Chiefly of Galloway Gathered from the Years 1889 to 1895Crockett, S. R. (Samuel Rutherford)
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Bog-Myrtle and Peat: Tales Chiefly of Galloway Gathered from the Years 1889 to 1895
Crockett, S. R. (Samuel Rutherford)
Dumfries and Galloway (Scotland) -- Fiction; Short stories
It is now close on the dawning, and the cocks have been saying so from
many farm-houses for half an hour--tiny, fairy cock-crows, clear and
shrill from far away, like pixies blowing their horns of departure, "All
aboard for Elfland!" lest the hateful revealing sun should light upon
their revels. Nearer, hoarse and raucous Chanticleer (of Shanghai
evidently, from the chronic cold which sends his voice deep down into
his spurs)--thunders an earth-shaking bass. 'Tis time for night hawks to
be in bed, for the keepers will be astir in a little, and it looks
suspicious to be seen leaving the pheasant coverts at four in the
morning. The hands of the watch point to the hour, and as though waiting
for the word, the whole rookery rises in a black mass and drifts
westward across the tree-tops.
_Flood Tide of Night_.
In these long midsummer nights the twilight lingers till within an hour
or two of dawn. When the green cool abyss of fathomless sky melts into
pale slate-grey in the west, and the high tide of darkness pauses
before it begins to ebb, then is the watershed of day and night. The
real noon of night is quite an hour and a half after the witching hour,
just as the depth of winter is really a month after the shortest day.
Indeed, at this time of the year, it is much too bright at twelve for
even so sleepy a place as a churchyard to yawn. And if any ghost peeped
out, 'twould only be to duck under again, all a-tremble lest, the
underground horologes being out of gear, a poor shade had somehow
overslept cockcrow and missed his accustomed airing.
_Way for the Sun_.
By two o'clock, however, there is a distinct brightening in the east,
and pale, streaky cirrus cloudlets gather to bar the sun's way. Broad,
equal-blowing airs begin to draw to and fro through the woods. There is
an earthy scent of wet leaves, sharpened with an unmistakable aromatic
whiff of garlic, which has been trodden upon and rises to reproach us
for our carelessness. Listen! Let us stand beneath this low-branched
elder.
"We cannot see what flowers are at our feet,"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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