The first object which caught his eye in the kitchen was a tall, stout,
country-looking man, in a large jockey great-coat, the owner of the
horse which stood in the shed, who was busy discussing huge slices of
cold boiled beef, and casting from time to time an eye through the
window, to see how his steed sped with his provender. A large tankard
of ale flanked his plate of victuals, to which he applied himself by
intervals. The good woman of the house was employed in baking. The
fire, as is usual in that country, was on a stone hearth, in the midst
of an immensely large chimney, which had two seats extended beneath the
vent. On one of these sat a remarkably tall woman, in a red cloak and
slouched bonnet, having the appearance of a tinker or beggar. She was
busily engaged with a short black tobacco-pipe.
At the request of Brown for some food, the landlady wiped with her
mealy apron one corner of the deal table, placed a wooden trencher and
knife and fork before the traveller, pointed to the round of beef,
recommended Mr Dinmont's good example, and, finally, filled a brown
pitcher with her home-brewed. Brown lost no time in doing ample credit
to both. For a while, his opposite neighbour and he were too busy to
take much notice of each other, except by a good-humoured nod as each
in turn raised the tankard to his head. At length, when our pedestrian
began to supply the wants of little Wasp, the Scotch store-farmer,
for such was Mr Dinmont, found himself at leisure to enter into
conversation.
_Sir Walter Scott,--"Guy Mannering."_
Lake Scenery
The morning was clear and cheerful after a night of sharp frost. At ten
o'clock we took our way on foot towards Pooley Bridge on the same side
of the lake we had coasted in a boat the day before.--Looked backwards
to the south from our favourite station above Blowick. The dazzling
sunbeams striking upon the church and village, while the earth was
steaming with exhalations not traceable in other quarters, rendered
their forms even more indistinct than the partial and flitting veil
of unillumined vapour had done two days before. The grass on which
we trod, and the trees in every thicket, were dripping with melted
hoar-frost. We observed the lemon-coloured leaves of the birches, as
the breeze turned them to the sun, sparkle, or rather _flash_, like
diamonds, and the leafless purple twigs were tipped with globes of
shining crystal.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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