THE new risen sun was clearing away that close and cold rimy mist from the vale and hill-side which impedes the work of the sickle. A long and sinuous line of this frozen vapour pursued the current of the river, and shrouded its bosom and its grassy margin from the brightening luminary. The continued clang of harvest-horns was heard on every side, calling the reapers to their tasks, and the early shepherd already on the mountain-side, looked down from the verdant declivities and grazing flocks, on the bustle and agitation of the valley. Each farm-house poured forth its own tribe of reapers, who, with shining sickles, and eager steps, pursued their way to their day's tasks; and the farmers themselves, already in the field, stood shelling the ripe white grain between their teeth, and waving their hands for the labourers to come and cut the ripest. On a bench of stone, which the kindness of my fair Cameronian had covered with a rug, sat the old Border harper, Bernard de Aveyline; his faithful dog, and his well strung harp, were by his side, and he spread out his large and palsied hands to the pleasant eastern stream of warmth. Beside him was seated his fellow mendicant, known over the vale of Nith by the name of John Penpont, but as gray hairs began to claim the reverence of youth, he obtained the name of Auld Penpont-inimitable drollery and inexhaustible humour, mixed up with something like glimpses of a higher feeling, seemed to rest and revel in his demure look of self-enjoyment. Between the knees of this upland worthy was placed a wooden bowl, full to the brim, of that delicious beverage called "crop of whey," and the communication between the vessel and his lips was preserved by the constant travel of a horn spoon.

The Cameronian elder, standing on the green declivity before his door, sent forth the sound of his harvestbugle over dale and river; and instantly to his side came in ready trim his whole boon of harvest-labourers, with Hamish Machamish at their head. Presently another harvest-horn replied

from a woody hollow, and instantly Ronald Rodan appeared with a score of able reapers behind him. The horn of the youth had a tone infinitely more mellow and melodious than the common instruments of that name-which are remarkable only for their clamorous din, unless distance softens the noise, before it reaches the ear of the listener. The youth came forward with the buoyant spring of health and joy, and the Border harper welcomed his approach by stretching out his hands and saying, "Let me touch thee, Ronald, my son." He hastened to the old man, who placed his hands on his shoulders, while he thus addressed him; "I am proud of thee, youththou lendest thy frank and free hand to thy neighbour, proving thy generosity of nature, and thy knowledge and observance of the ancient hospitable laws of Glenae. If thine own servants faulter or fail in gathering thy crop, thou canst command the aid of thy neighbour, for all who sojourn in this land are as brother and friend. Look abroad, my son, and hearken to my words. Doth not Dalswinton's brown moorlands, Carmichael's mountain wastes, and the green hedge-rows of ancient Tinwold, bound thee in as with a wall-not a wall of hewn stone, but of nobler workmanship? Doth not the blue and glowing hollow of heaven form the ceiling and the canopy-do you not eat from the same landbreathe of the same air, and drink from the same clear stream?-Do you not, as of old, keep the portals of your house open to the wanderer after sun-set? You are all one family-and may the misery of blindness, and the curse of being childless, cling to the man who scorns the native and ancient law. Go, my son, and with the sickle, as with the harp, do thy ablest; and the renown of the beneficent husbandman will be thine, and the profit of the ripe ear."

As the old man concluded, the harvest band of the Cameronian proceeded towards a large field of standing corn, with which the labours of the sickle would conclude for the sca

son.

The Highland reapers, anxious for the van in the harvest-field, marched foremost. 66 They be a strange people," said the Cameronian; "they are ambitious of the front, whether they be summoned by the peaceful horn or the warlike trumpet-whether they come to lay their sharp sickles under the ripe ear, or descend as reapers to the harvest of death, with their steel blades in their hands-assuredly they are a strange people."-On the departing band looked Auld Penpont, supplying himself plentifully with the shepherd's beverage-crop of whey; while a simple dog, who expected a tasting from a bowl, equal to the rapacity of two drovers, sat and eyed the diminishing contents with an eye of fixed despair. He swallowed the remainder of the curd-trundled from him the empty basin to the foot of the milk-maid, and said, "Luck to the house, my sonsie quean, and thank ye -I supped them out-cause ought's gude that comes frae thy white handand forbye I wanted to shew I had nae ill will to the house."-He then followed the reapers with his eye, and said, as if speaking to himself, "Ay, ay, take the bent to yere pastime, and yere pleasant sport-I never liked, in the ablest hour o❜ my life, to see ane o' thae crooked corn-cutting weapons in my hand-Indeed, ony haurl o' health I had was aye about meal-time -And as for binding the sheaf and stooking it, it's a braw pastime. Bairns, when ye're wearied shearing, ye can rest ye and stook the corn, quoth my grandfather; and bairns, when ye're tired delving, ye can rest ye, and pull kale-runts, quo' my grand-dame.However, it's a braw and a bonny boon, and I'll warrant they'll steep their sarks in sweat afore they won the kirn. It's a bonny sight, I have lang said it, to see men laying the willing arm and the sharp sickle under the ready ear, and making the tall yellow corn come rustling down. Ay, truly, some men's gifts be in their hand, and some men's gifts be in their head-and though Auld Penpont, waeful body, downae touch the white haft o' a hook ony mair than he dare a water-adder, he obliges the world by helping it to an hour's mirth. There's plenty o' willing-handed gomerals to cut corn and thrash pea-strae, and snore at a sermon -but, conscience, the cannie chields are scant wha can make the mirk night

o' December short, and lend the leaden hours of human gloom the merry wings to flee with. They're scant, Auld Penpont, my sonsie man—sae tent and hain thyself, I say, and dinna wear thy carcase out that lives but to oblige the world." And with this wise conclusion he applied himself to a crusty ewe-milk cheese, somewhere about the weight of a Scotch pound, heedless of his blind companion, who sat and enjoyed, with the feeling and gratification of sight, the scene spread out in the morning light before him.

The field of corn which the harvest band of the Cameronian prepared themselves to cut, was both long and wide, and the riggs, ploughed under his accurate eye, were drawn with the precision of a direct line. It was the last day of reaping, and to win the glory of cutting the last handful of corn, is an honour for which few disdain to strive. The Cameronian, therefore, reserved several handfuls of the fairest and straightest corn for the Harvest Kirn, and which was to be cut by the sickle of the most dexterous reaper. The field was then lotted out into three landings, the Highland reapers took their station together, the Lowland shearers of young Ronald Rodan on the left, and those of John Macmukle on the right. The youth said aloud, as he whetted his sickle, "I shall either gain a kiss frae some fair lip for winning the kirn, or some shall have hot brows for it-But who's to be my partner?-wilt thou take the half of the rigg with me, Jessy, my sweet one?" addressing himself to a squat ruddy young maiden, who belonged to his own band.

-"Me partner thee !" said the damsel," and have to cut my awn half o' the rigg and thine baith-there's mair whistling than red land wi' thee, my sclender chield."And the rustic nymph took her station by the side of a broad and brawny weaver, whose manly dimensions pleased the speculating eye of Jessy Magrubb better than the slim and elegant form of Ronald Rodan. "A bonnie tale," said Keturah Kissock, a rosy widow from Tynron Kirk," that the burr dockan should scorn the stately lily. It would be a pleasant thing even to lose by the side o' síc a sonsie young lad."-The youth smiled and said, "If thou wilt be my partner, I have seen as great a marvel happen as the kirn-cut of corn coming to as sackless hands as thine

and mine and thy hand, too, is one of the whitest."-" Fair fa' thy weel faured face," said Keturah, for a widow speaks with a freer spirit than a maiden, and has fewer of those coy and malicious airs which unwon and unworn nymphs possess, "I have not heard sic a kindly word sin the departure o' my ain puir Edie. I'll warrant ye'll mind him weel, Ronald, my kindly lad-the first time I saw him was at a Thornhill Fair, and the last time I saw him was gaun coffin'd owre the hill to the auld kirk-yard o' Dunscore." And uttering a half-suppressed sigh, she turned aside-seemed to try the keenness of her sickle, and dropt some tears to the memory of her lost lord.

While these arrangements were making, my fair Cameronian charge came suddenly to my side, and, putting a reap-hook in my hand, while she retained its fellow in her own, said in a low voice, "Mark, I see nought to hinder you and me from helping to give a hot brow to this bevy of notable kempers. See, there's the upland fowk, they cut the corn as slow as a moth wad eat into ane o' their tartan plaids -there's small fear o' them-then there's kemping Tam Niveson, wha ance in the heat o' the harvest field noticed nae that his rig was reaped, and that he had shorn a rood of whins, till the bandsman pricked his knuckles! he lives, honest chield, on the fame of this visionary darke, and winna molest man with his sickle mair. Then there's Ronald Rodan"-and her eyes became darker as she spoke-" and his rosie widow-Keturah winna heed her hook for looking at him-see if she binna gazing under his eyelids even now as piteously as if she saw a mote -and for Ronald himself, he's a dexterous kemper till some hair-brain'd ballad comes in his head-and he's seldom without sic visitation-and then a dame o' fourscore years and four may win the kirn for him-Sae, Mark, my lad, let us try; and gin ye'll promise to cut the corn as cleverly as when ye kempit by the side o' bonnie Mary Dinwiddie of Nether Banfeggan, I dinna ken but I might bribe ye wi' a cannie hour at gloaming-fa' under the hazel bower birks, and no ane o' a' the Boons be the wiser for't."-" Indeed, my bonnie Mary," I said, trembling with joy," the rosie widow of Ronald Rodan will not look oftener in his dark eyes than I shall look in thine; how

can I think on kirns, and such a sweet and beautiful one beside me ?""Mark Macrabin," said the fair Cameronian, interrupting me, and with a smile of a mild but austere composure which sinks surer to the heart than the merriest look, "remember the boding words of the departing woman-it's no for nought the dying speak"-And she laid her long white and trembling fingers on my hand and looked in my face, while her heart heaved as though it would sunder the cambric on her bosom.

At this moment the harvest-horn' blew the signal blast; the sickles were instantly in motion, and the corn sunk before us in a straight line from side to side. On reaching the first landing, we found an ample breakfast prepared for us on the summit of a small green knoll. A line of wooden vessels, formed of variegated staves, and filled with whey porridge, appeared drawn in a rank as regular as a line of corn-shocks on a new reaped field. A line of ramhorn spoons, with their shafts stuck into the turf, surrounded each breakfast vessel, and beside the whole stood Marion Morehead, glancing an eye of pride on this trim and orderly arrangement. Over the whole the Cameronian poured one of these brief graces so common to the harvest field, when the love of the husbandman for the gains of the earth prevails against a sense of his own gifts in devotional eloquence. "Slow at meat and slow at wark," is a favourite adage among the thrifty dames of Caledonia; and on a harvest-field, where all is regulated by the nicest calculation, it is a matter of prime importance to be adroit at the use of the spoon. Up started kemping Tam Niveson, and, throwing his spoon on the grass as he rose, called out, "Loup to yere heuks, and may the deel claw the clungest," and every hand as he spoke quitting the spoon, seized on the sickle, and the corn began to fall.

We gained the second landing with great silence and regularity; but when we drew ourselves up against the third and last, it was easy to see, by the trembling anxiety prevailing from side to side, that a keen struggle for superiority would ensue. I could not avoid casting a glance over the long line of reapers as they stood in ready preparation. Hamish Machamish, with his pipes in order, drew himself behind the Highland shearers, and the look of import

ance which he threw on his brethren and on himself was repaid by a wave of the reap-hook, and a smile from Mag Macfarlane, who called out, "Gudesake, Hamish, give the bag of melody a merry squeeze, and the tartan petticoat shall win the gree frae the coat of callimanco. Gude right and gude reason!" Tam Neiveson stood relating his ancient exploit of the hot kemp and the rood of furze, which he modestly augmented to half an acre; and when he concluded, "It's a true tale," said Nancy Currie; "for Tam has some o' the whins in his thumbs to this hour, and canna keep up his rigg against my auld auntie, wha's twafauld with the rhuematics."-"Me twafauld wi' the rheumatics!" said Nancie's maiden aunt, standing as erectly as she could; " my certie, ye clip-tongued cuttie, ye rheumatic weel -I havena had a single stound o' the rheumatics these lang seven year-I can walk as straught in my black leather shoon as ye can do in yere pink slippers, ye cresting kimmer." A loud laugh told how accurately the maiden's wit had hit right and left, while the widow Keturah sharpened her sickle till it reminded her, she said, of the gleg edge that him that's awa aye put on her harvest tool. "And I wonder, Ronald Rodan, my lad, what makes me think on him whenever I look thee in the face his eye was like thine, though barely so bright, and oh! its glance was kindly-his leg was sae taper and sae genty, it was lightsome to see him walk before me—and a kiss o' my gudeman was gude for the heartburn. I'll never meet wi' his like again; and yet why should I asperse the handywarks o' Providence: there's nought without its marrow; and yet that's hardly the truth either, since I lack my ain joe and darling."-And she gazed in the fine face of the handsome youth, and sighed for a favourable hour and a convenient justice of the peace. Ronald Rodan himself stood conspicuous, not by his looks alone, but by his dress, from meanerminded persons; he had laid neither coat nor bonnet aside, and seemed wholly unconcerned about the issue of the approaching contest. My fair Cameronian looked over the field while she whet her sickle, and whispered to me, in a tone approaching to intercession, "Dinna forget that I have bribed thee to do thy best wi' the promise o' a gliff

"I'se

at gloaming under the Tryste bower birks; I would rather add a whole night to the hour than Ronald Rodan and yon govan widow should waur us.-Sae nae a single word—that look was a full vow to do thy utmostsae here's for the kirn." And the harvest-horn winding as she spoke, the sickles were laid to the root of the ripe grain, and the contest commenced. Those on the haft and those on the point of the hook exerted themselves with so much success, that Hamish Machamish was compelled to cheer up his lagging mountaineers by the charms of his pipe. But the music_which breathed life and mettle into the men of the mountains seemed not without its influence on those of the plains. The Highland sickles, though kept in incessant and rapid motion, could not prevent the haft and the point from advancing before them, forming a front like the horns of a crescent. The old bandsmen enjoyed the contest; and, from their conversation alone, I learned how the field was likely to go. tell thee what, Lucas Laurie," said Saunders Creeshmaloof, as sure as the seven stars are no aught—and the starry elwand will never measure the length o' the lang Bear-that sangsinging haspin o' a callant Ronald Rodan, and that light-ended, light-headed-I mean, widow-woman, Keturah, will win the kirn o' Crumacomfort— they are foremost by a lang cat loup at least."- "Heard ever ony body the like o' that, Saunders Creeshmaloof," said his fellow expounder of shooting stars: ye have an e'e that couldnae tell that a pike staff was langer than ane o' Tam Macgee's spoolpins! I sall eat a' the corn, chaff and a', without butter, that the ballad-making lad has cut afore our ain sonsie lass o' Lillycross and this mettled stripling that's her marrow. I wish, however, the lad bairn wad take counsel, and no lose time by keeking aye in the maiden's face ilka lauchter he lays down; and may I be suppered wi' shotten stars on the summit o' Queensberry gin they dinna win the kirn."-I adopted this self-denying counsel, and rejoiced to find the sacrifice was rewarded with success. "It's a bonnie sight, Gudeman o' Crumacomfort," said another bandsman, as he hooded a stook behind me; "I say its a bonnie sight to see sae mony stark youths and strapping kimmers streaking themselves sae

66

eyedently to the harvest darke. Hech! but that sonsie widow Keturah be a proud ane-she's marrowed wi' the proudest piece o' man's flesh in the vale o' Ae. He's a clever lad, though he be a proud ane; he casts his sickle sae glegly round the corn, and rolls a lauchter like a little sheaf, and yet looks sae heedless a' the while, as gin he were framing some fule ballad. I wad counsel him to cast aside that black-and-blue bird bonnet, wi' its hassoc o' feathers. See, see, how he makes them fan aye the hot brow o' the widow, and oh! but she blinks blythely for't-Conscience, gudeman! wer't no for thy well-fa'ard Mary and her marrow, they wad win the kirn― they're within a stane-cast o' the landing."

ye

The Highland piper, whose music had augmented as we proceeded, now blew a perfect hurricane, and the sickles moved faster and faster; but though they kept time with the music like the accuracy of a marching regiment, they failed to obtain the smallest visible advantage, and the unintelligible clattering and muttering they raised resembled the outcry of a disturbed flock of geese. "Deel blaw south for a pose o' gowd, and take ye to the Highlands wi' the same wind again, gin I can make ye gain the half length o' my chanter on thae brainwude bairns on the haft and point. God, gin I had them in Glentourachglen, where deel hate grows but braken, wi' a straught blade, instead o' a bow ed ane in my neeve, I wad turn the best o' them!"-So saying, Hamish Machamish relinquished the contest in despair, and the wind as it forsook his instrument grunted a long and melancholy whine, like the wind in a cloven oak. As we approached the landing, the old bandsmen ran on either side, and looked on the concluding contest with accuracy of eye which counted every handful that remained unshorn. "Conscience! but that sonsie woman Keturah merits to be married," said an old man, whose chin as he walked almost touched the stubble; "and she sha'na want a man though I should take her mysel-she makes the corn fa' afore her like the devouring fire."-" And she would be an useful woman t'ye, Roger," said another old man, whose prolonged cough as he spoke seemed like a kirkyard VOL. VIIL

echo; "she wad make ye a drib buttered gruel, and have aye something cozie and warm for ye whan ye daundered hame at gloaming." -"And I can tell ye," said one of their companions,

gin that callant Ronald Rodan wad give up the gowk-craft o' ballad making and bide by the craft o' cutting corn and passing the sharp coulter through the greensward, he wadnae hae his fellow atween Cosincon and Caerlaverock; and I shouldnae grudge him my daughter Penny Holiday, wi' a tocher o' twal hundred as bonnie merks as e'er were minted."

While this conversation passed, the exertions of all seemed redoubled. It was a beautiful sight to see the rows of tall stooks ranked behind-the standing corn before diminished to a mere remnant, with half an hundred bright sickles glimmering in perpetual motion at its root, and the busy movement of so many fair and anxious faces shining with the dews of toil-the motion of curling haffet locks and white hands, and so many grey-haired men awaiting to commend the victor. "I may gae seek out the kirn-cut o' corn," said old Hugh Halbertson, "and dress and daikert out wi' lily white ribbons as gayley as I please, and a' for my ain bonny Mary o' Lilycross."-Even as the old man spoke, the four sickles on the haft and point reached the end at once, and so close were their companions, that ere John Macmuckle concluded his flourish on the harvesthorn, the corn was all lying on the bands. Ronald Rodan taking at the same time his horn from the hands of one of the bandsmen, winded it so loud, and even melodious, that Ae water returned the echo from every double of her stream, the shepherd shouted on the hill, and the numerous reapers of neighbour Boons, staying their sickles, waved them around their heads at every repeated flourish of the horn. An old bandsman conversant with the traditional ceremonies of winning harvestkirns, took the last and reserved cut of corn, and, braiding it into two locks, crowned my fair Cameronian partner with one and the buxom Keturah with the other, who stood shedding the moisture with her white hands from her long hair, and giving the cooling breeze free admission to a white and shapely neck, glancing her blue eyes, all the while on Ronald Rodan.

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