You
would not know for the same those hills that so little time gone past
nursed you in their soft embrace. Then, in the warm, sunny days, shadows
of great fleecy clouds chased each other leisurely up the braes through
the bracken and the purpling heather; the burn sang to itself a merry
tune as it tumbled from boulder to boulder, rippling through pools where
the yellow trout lay basking; on the clear air came the call of grouse,
and afar off a solitary raven croaked in the stillness of a sun-steeped
glen. Now the bracken is dead, the bent sodden and chill with November's
sleet; against a background of heavy, leaden-grey sky the heather lies
black as if washed in ink. Across from the wild North Sea comes a wind
thin and nipping, waxing in strength, and with the gathering storm
piping ever more shrilly down the glen, driving before it now a fine,
powdery white dust that chokes nostril and mouth, and blinds the eyes of
those whom necessity compels to be out-doors. It is "an oncome," a
"feeding storm." Thus have begun many of the great snowstorms that from
time to time have devastated the Border and taken heavy toll of man and
beast.
In March 1615 snow fell to such a depth, and drifted so terribly, that
not only did many men perish, but likewise "most part of all the horse,
nolt, and sheep of the kingdom.
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