I found the Howe Burn readily enough, and scrambled up its mossy bottom.

By this time the day was wearing late, and the mist was deepening into the darker shades of night.

It is an eery business to be out on the hills at such a season, for they are deathly quiet except for the lashing of the storm.

You will never hear a bird cry or a sheep bleat or a weasel scream.

The only sound is the drum of the rain on the peat or its plash on a boulder, and the low surge of the swelling streams.