Here it was about the time of noon, and I halted to eat my midday meal. I know not whether if was the long walk and the rough scrambling, or the clean, fresh spring air, or the bright sunshine, or the clear tinkle of the burn at my feet, or the sense of freedom and adventurous romance, but I have rarely eaten a meal with such serene satisfaction. All this extraordinary day I had been alternating between excessive gaiety and sad regrets. Now the former element had the mastery, and I was as hilarious as a young horse when he is first led out to pasture. And after a little as I sat there my mirth grew into a sober joy. I remembered all the poets who had sung of the delights of the open air and the unshackled life. I laughed at my former feeling of shame in the matter. Was there any ignominy in being driven from the baseness of settled habitation to live like a prince under God’s sky? And yet, as I exulted in the thought, I knew all too well that in a little my feelings would have changed and I would be in the depths of despondency. In less than an hour I had turned a corner of hill and there before me lay the noble strath of Clyde. I am Tweedside born and will own no allegiance save to my own fair river, but I will grant that next to it there is none fairer than the upper Clyde. Were it not that in its lower course it flows through that weariful west country among the dull whigamores and Glasgow traders, it would be near as dear to me as my own well-loved Tweed. There it lay, glittering in light, and yellow with that strange yellow glow that comes on April waters. The little scrubs of wood were scarce seen, the few houses were not in the picture; nothing caught the eye save the giant mouldings of the hills, the severe barren vale, and the sinuous path of the stream. I crossed it without any mishap, wading easily through at one of the shallows. There was no one in sight, no smoke from any dwelling; all was as still as if it were a valley of the dead. Only from the upper air the larks were singing, and the melancholy peewits cried ever over the lower moorlands. From this place my course was clear; I went up the prattling Wandel Burn, from where it entered the river, and soon I was once more lost in the windings of the dark hills. There is a narrow bridle-path which follows the burn, leading from Broughton in Tweeddale to Abington, so the way was easier walking. And now I come to the relation of one of the strangest adventures of this time, which as often as I think upon it fills me with delight. For it was a ray of amusement in the perils and hardships of my wanderings.