“One very fine morning, at this period of my narrative, Gawen Braithwaite, a stout young man of rather more than my own age, the son of a neighbouring statesman, and myself, sallied forth on an excursion of a character not uncommon among the young men of that country in my early days, and probably still prevailing,—which combined the three great excitements to youth for any similar undertaking, viz. pleasure, danger, and sometimes profit. This was, the gathering _ruddle_ in the SCREES of Wastdale. This operation will require some explanation to make it intelligible to you. _Ruddle_ is a stone strongly mixed with iron, which, by wetting and rubbing, produces a deep red paint which hardly any exposure to the weather can wash away, especially when stained upon an oily substance like wool. Now this ruddle the shepherds of the mountains use to mark their sheep with, that it may be known to whom they belong. As the sheep range over a wide and unenclosed extent of moor and fell, they often ramble far from home, and though each shepherd well knows every one of his own sheep by face, yet strangers could not know to whom a stray animal belonged, unless it bore some mark to point out its owner. Hence the occupier of every sheep-farm has his own peculiar mark, which has been used on that farm time out of mind, by which his sheep are known all over the country-side; and at sheep-shearings, which are always times of great festivity and rejoicing, the shepherds assemble from all parts of the country, and choose out their own stray sheep from each flock as it is shorn, appealing to their well-known marks as proofs of ownership. These marks, as I said, are made by the mineral called _ruddle_, which, being very scarce, has a considerable value in the market, fetching as much as at least sixpence a pound. Now sixpences are not very abundant in the pockets of country lads; and they are very glad to secure them, even though it be but by one at a time, at the expense of wasting many hours, which they value little, and at much risk of their necks, which they value less. It happens that this _ruddle_ is principally to be found in the most dangerous place in all the lake country—a place which you must have seen, for it is visited by all tourists who wish to explore by far the finest part of all that beautiful district—the SCREES of Wast-water. These Screes are a long and lofty ridge of almost perpendicular rocks, running from SCAW-FELL towards the sea, along the whole southern side of the lake of Wastdale, and are of so brittle and crumbling a nature, that almost the smallest pebble, set rolling from above, will gather a host of them as it goes, till a whole army of little stones rush pell-mell to the bottom of the rock and plunge headlong into the dark lake below, at least fifty fathoms deep! It is on the face and half way down the side of this shivery rock that the little veins of _ruddle_ are to be found, and you may guess the steady step and firm