But the valley of the Carron away to the east is not less interesting although its interest is of a more historical character. It is not, however, without an occasional spot of extra loveliness. For example, a little below where it crosses the Kilsyth and Stirling (old) Road, 6 miles behind Kilsyth, it rushes over the Spout or Linn of Auchintilly. In spite of its grand name, which means “field of the overflowing torrent and pool,” it is little known, as it is in a most unfrequented valley. We have made the journey right round by road from Lennoxtown to Kilsyth, a distance of some 19 miles, without meeting more than two people on the highway, although not so far removed from the “madding crowd.” This state of matters reminded us at the time of Dean Ramsay’s story of the English traveller on the out-of-the-way Scotch road, who asked a stone-breaker whom he passed, “Does nobody travel on this road at all?” “O yes,” was the answer, “we’re not that bad. There was a gangrel body yesterday, and there’s yoursel’ the day.” If we were writing in verse, we would be obliged to say of this sexasyllabic, significant, mouth-filling, and loud-sounding name—Auchin-tilly-lin-spout—what Horace says of the little town in which he lodged a night in his journey from Rome to Brundusium, _Versu dicere non est_. And yet those banks have been sung of both by Ossian and Hector M’Neill, the latter, a native of the shire. M’Neill speaks of it as the classic stream where Fingal fought and Ossian hymned his heaven-taught lays; and Dyer sings of it as still seeming responsive to Ossian’s lyre. The ancient ballad of “Gil Morice” also—the story of which has been formed into the celebrated tragedy of “Douglas”—represents the mother of the unfortunate young hero as having “lived on Carron side.” We have no time to discuss the ornithology of our day’s outing; but we could almost hear the throbbing of birds’ hearts, which portends a sudden and distant flight. Had we been down on the banks, either of the Endrick or of the Carron a month ago, we could have seen the common sandpiper in its old haunts. But now that September is upon us not one is to be seen. Silently but surely they have slipped off in the night, and the rivers will not know them till next April. But the rooks are in abundance admiring their glossy plumage and symmetry, reminding us of the Scottish aphorism, and proving its truthfulness, “Aye, you’re a bonny pair, as the craw said to its ain twa feet.” They are now beginning to assemble in flocks, and those often deserve the appellation of “a craw’s preaching” from the flow of noisy eloquence of which at such times they are capable.