"I am willing and brawly willing," said the man.

"Then meet me at the Gled's Cleuch Head at the sun's setting," said the
bird, and it flew away.

Now it seemed to the man that in a twinkling it was sunset, and he
found himself at the Gled's Cleuch Head with the bird flapping in the
heather before him. The place was a long rift in the hill, made green
with juniper and hazel, where it was said True Thomas came to drink the
water.

"Turn ye to the west," said the whaup, "and let the sun fail on your
face; then turn ye five times round about and say after me the Rune Of
the Heather and the Dew." And before he knew the man did as he was
told, and found himself speaking strange words, while his head hummed
and danced as if in a fever.

"Now lay ye down and put your ear to the earth," said the bird; and the
man did so. Instantly a cloud came over his brain, and he did not feel
the ground on which he lay or the keen hill-air which blew about him.
He felt himself falling deep into an abysm of space, then suddenly
caught up and set among the stars of heaven. Then slowly from the
stillness there welled forth music, drop by drop like the clear falling
of rain, and the man shuddered for he knew that he heard the beginning
of the Rime.

High rose the air, and trembled among the tallest pines and the summits
of great hills. And in it were the sting of rain and the blatter of
hail, the soft crush of snow and the rattle of thunder among crags.
Then it quieted to the low sultry croon which told of blazing midday
when the streams are parched and the bent crackles like dry tinder.
Anon it was evening, and the melody dwelled among the high soft notes
which mean the coming of dark and the green light of sunset. Then the
whole changed to a great paean which rang like an organ through the
earth. There were trumpet notes ill it and flute notes and the plaint
of pipes. "Come forth," it cried; "the sky is wide and it is a far cry
to the world's end. The fire crackles fine o' nights below the firs,
and the smell of roasting meat and wood smoke is dear to the heart of
man. Fine, too is the sting of salt and the rasp of the north wind in
the sheets. Come forth, one and all, unto the great lands oversea, and
the strange tongues and the hermit peoples. Learn before you die to
follow the Piper's Son, and though your old bones bleach among grey
rocks, what matter if you have had your bellyful of life and come to
your heart's desi