nd, struck with a similarity of
title, took it home with me and read it with indescribable
satisfaction. I do not know whether I more envy M. Theuriet the
pleasure of having written this delightful article, or the reader
the pleasure, which I hope he has still before him, of reading it
once and again, and lingering over the passages that please him
most.

VII

A WINTER'S WALK IN CARRICK AND GALLOWAY

(_A Fragment_: 1876)

At the famous bridge of Doon, Kyle, the central district of the shire of
Ayr, marches with Carrick, the most southerly. On the Carrick side of
the river rises a hill of somewhat gentle conformation, cleft with
shallow dells, and sown here and there with farms and tufts of wood.
Inland, it loses itself, joining, I suppose, the great herd of similar
hills that occupies the centre of the Lowlands. Towards the sea, it
swells out the coast-line into a protuberance, like a bay window in a
plan, and is fortified against the surf behind bold crags. This hill is
known as the Brown Hill of Carrick, or, more shortly, Brown Carrick.

It had snowed overnight. The fields were all sheeted up; they were
tucked in among the snow, and their shape was modelled through the
pliant counterpane, like children tucked in by a fond mother. The wind
had made ripples and folds upon the surface, like what the sea, in quiet
weather, leaves upon the sand. There was a frosty stifle in the air. An
effusion of coppery light on the summit of Brown Carrick showed where
the sun was trying to look through; but along the horizon clouds of cold
fog had settled down, so that there was no distinction of sky and sea.
Over the white shoulders of the headlands, or in the opening of bays,
there was nothing but a great vacancy and blackness; and the road as it
drew near the edge of the cliff seemed to skirt the shores of creation
and void space.

The snow crunched underfoot, and at farms all the dogs broke out barking
as they smelt a passer-by upon the road. I met a fine old fellow, who
might have sat as the father in "The Cottar's Saturday Night," and who
swore most heathenishly at a cow he was driving. And a little after I
scraped acquaintance with a poor body tramping out to gather cockles.
His face was wrinkled by exposure; it was broken up into flakes and
channels, like mud beginning to dry, and weathered in two colours, an
incongruous pink and grey. He had a faint air of being surprised--which,
God know