“Going up to ta top o’ ta fa’s, Maister Kenneth?” shouted Long Shon.
“Yes. Coming with us?”
“She’d petter tak’ care,” cried Tavish. “There’s a teal o’ watter, and ta stanes is ferry wat.”
“All right, Tavvy; we’ll mind,” cried Kenneth; and he plunged in among the bushes and rocks, to begin climbing upward in and out, and gradually leaving the rushing waters of the fall behind, while, as the misty foam with its lovely ferny surroundings faded from the eye, the loud splash and roar gradually softened upon the ear till the sound was once more a deep, murmurous hum, which acted as a bass accompaniment to a harsh, wild air which Scoodrach began to sing, or rather bray.
Kenneth stopped short, held back the bushes of hazel dotted with nuts, and turned round to give Max a comical look.
“What’s the matter, Scoody?” he cried. “Eh? ta matter? I only scratched my hand wi’ a bit thorn.”
“Oh! Well, you needn’t make so much noise about it.”
“Noise spout it! She titn’t mak’ nae noise.”
“Yes, you did. You hulloaed horribly.”
“She titn’t. She was chust singing a wee bit sang.”