And sweetly in the morning air, in that dark wood, rose those tuneful voices three.
I dare only give one verse.
“Far down thy dark green plantin’ shade
The cushat croodles am’rouslie,
The mavis in the buchtin’ glade
Mak’s echo ring frae tree to tree.
Thou bonnie wood o’ Craigielee,
Thou bonnie wood o’ Craigielee,
In thee I spent life’s early day,
An’ won my Mary’s heart in thee.”
The landlady of the little inn knew the young men, and was delighted to see them. She promised, if they would leave the matter to her, to provide a dinner, she felt sure, would not only please them, but the winsome young lady too. And would they have the boy, their old guide? Of course they would. Without him they could not be sure of anything like a bag.
Well, the boy came, and he carried the luncheon that was to be eaten by the burnside, and the bottle of delicious heather-ale.
It was, on the whole, a heavy burden, but this lad’s back seemed just made for heavy burdens, tiny and all though he was.
The trout to-day were very kind, and even before luncheon-time they had succeeded in making a fairly good bag.
After luncheon they completed their “take,” then spent the rest of their time in wandering through the woods and fields, and by the Loch side, collecting wild-flowers. Then back to the inn in good time for dinner.
The tablecloth was spotlessly white, the knives and forks shone like silver, though they weren’t, and through the open window, as they dined, blew the soft west wind, laden with the odour of roses. Roast duck and tender green peas, what could be better, but the whole associations made that dinner, simple though it was, far more delightful than if it had been eaten in the banqueting hall of a palace.