I hurried up to the mound of peats, and as I did so, the sound of the song became stronger. Then it ceased, and the little singer began a fresh melody:
‘Behind yon hills where Lugar flows,
‘Mang muirs an’ mosses mony, O,
The wintry sun the day has closed——’
He stopped suddenly as he caught sight of me, and a fine collie which had been lying beside him made a dash at me.
‘Doon, Swallow! Lie doon, sir!’ cried the child, and the dog obeyed at once.
It was not a heap of peats, as I had supposed, but a tiny hut, just large enough to hold a boy sitting upright, ingeniously built of dry peats. It was open to the east, the lee side, and was quite impervious to the weather. The little fellow seemed to be about twelve years of age, a stout, rosy-cheeked laddie, clad in an immense Scotch bonnet and a tattered gray plaid; and his little red bare feet peeped out beneath his corduroys.
‘What on earth are you doing here, child?’ I exclaimed.
‘Eh?’ asked the boy, looking up in my face with surprise.
‘Why are you here? Why are you not at home?’