“Wraiths are quite common here, are they?”
“O yes, sir!—oure common. They appear aye afore death, especially if the death be to be sudden.”
“And what are they generally like?”
“Sometimes like a light—sometimes like a windin–sheet—sometimes like the body that’s to dee, gaen mad—and sometimes like a coffin made o’ moon–light.”
“Was it in the evening you saw this apparition?”
“It was a little after midnight.”
“And pray, what might be your business in such a place at that untimely hour?—Explain that fully to me if you please.”
“I sall do that, sir, as weel as I can:—Our ewes, ye see, lie up in the twa Grains an’ the Middle a’ the harst—Now, the Quave Brae again, it’s our hogg–fence, that’s the hained grund like; and whenever the wind gangs easterly about, then whan the auld luckies rise i’ the howe o’ the night to get their rug, aff they come, snouckin a’ the way to the Lang Bank, an’ the tither end o’ them round the Piper Snout, and into the Quave Brae to the hained grund; an’ very often they think naething o’ landing i’ the mids o’ the corn. Now I never mindit the corn sae muckle; but for them to gang wi’ the hogg–fence, I coudna bide that ava; for ye ken, sir, how coud we turn our hand wi’ our pickle hoggs i’ winter if their bit foggage war a’ riven up by the auld raikin hypalts ere ever a smeary’s clute clattered on’t?”
Though Clavers was generally of an impatient temper, and loathed the simplicity of nature, yet he could not help smiling at this elucidation, which was much the same to him as if it had been delivered in the language of the Moguls; but seeing the shepherd perfectly sincere, he suffered him to go on to the end.
“Now, sir, ye ken the wind very often taks a swee away round to the east i’ the night–time whan the wather’s gude i’ the harst months, an’ whanever this was the case, and the moon i’ the lift, I had e’en aye obliged to rise at midnight, and gang round the hill an’ stop the auld kimmers—very little did the turn—just a bit thraw yont the brae, an’ they kend my whistle, or my tike’s bark, as weel as I did mysel, still they wadna do wantin’t. Weel, ye see, sir, I gets up an’ gangs to the door—it was a bonny night—the moon was hingin o’er the derk brows o’ Hopertoody, an’ the lang black scaddaws had an eiry look—I turned my neb the tither gate, an’ I fand the air was gane to the eissel; the se’en starns had gaen oure the lum, an’ the tail o’ the king’s elwand was just pointin to the Muchrah Crags. It’s the very time, quo’ I to mysel, I needna think about lying down again—I maun leave Janet to lie doverin by hersel for an hour or twa—Keilder, my fine dog, where are ye?—He was as ready as me—he likes a play i’ the night–time brawly, for he’s aye gettin a broostle at a hare, or a tod, or a foumart, or some o’ thae beasts that gang snaikin about i’ the derk. Sae to mak a lang tale short, sir, off we sets, Keilder an’ me, an’ soon comes to the place. The ewes had been very mensefu’ that night, they had just comed to the march and nae farther; sae, I says, puir things, sin’ ye hae been sae leifu’, we’ll sit down an’ rest a while, the dog an’ me, an’ let ye tak a pluck an’ fill yersels or we turn ye back up to your cauld lairs again. Sae down we sits i’ the scaddaw of a bit derksome cleuch–brae—naebody could hae seen us; and ere ever I wats, I hears by the grumblin o’ my friend, that he outher saw or smelled something mair than ordinar. I took him in aneath my plaid for fear o’ some grit brainyell of an outbrik; and whan I lookit, there was a white thing and a black thing new risen out o’ the solid yird! They cam close by me; and whan I saw the moon shinin on their cauld white faces, I lost my sight an’ swarfed clean away. Wae be to them for droichs, or ghaists, or whatever they war, for aye sin’ syne the hogg–fence o’ the Quave Brae has been harried an’ traisselled till its little better nor a drift road—I darna gang an’ stop the ewes now for the saul that’s i’ my bouk, an’ little do I wat what’s to come o’ the hoggs the year.”