JANET.
Once away, Gibbie had no thought of returning.Up Daurside was the sole propulsive force whose existence he recognized.But when he lifted his head from drinking at the stream, which was one of some size, and, greatly refreshed, looked up its channel, a longing seized him to know whence came the water of life which had thus restored him to bliss--how a burn first appears upon the earth.He thought it might come from the foot of a great conical mountain which seemed but a little way off.He would follow it up and see.
So away he went, yielding at once, as was his wont, to the first desire that came.He had not trotted far along the bank, however, before, at a sharp turn it took, he saw that its course was a much longer one than he had imagined, for it turned from the mountain, and led up among the roots of other hills; while here in front of him, direct from the mountain, as it seemed, came down a smaller stream, and tumbled noisily into this.The larger burn would lead him too far from the Daur; he would follow the smaller one.He found a wide shallow place, crossed the larger, and went up the side of the smaller.
Doubly free after his imprisonment of the morning, Gibbie sped joyously along.Already nature, her largeness, her openness, her loveliness, her changefulness, her oneness in change, had begun to heal the child's heart, and comfort him in his disappointment with his kind.The stream he was now ascending ran along a claw of the mountain, which claw was covered with almost a forest of pine, protecting little colonies of less hardy timber.Its heavy green was varied with the pale delicate fringes of the fresh foliage of the larches, filling the air with aromatic breath.In the midst of their soft tufts, each tuft buttoned with a brown spot, hung the rich brown knobs and tassels of last year's cones.But the trees were all on the opposite side of the stream, and appeared to be mostly on the other side of a wall.Where Gibbie was, the mountain-root was chiefly of rock, interspersed with heather.
A little way up the stream, he came to a bridge over it, closed at the farther end by iron gates between pillars, each surmounted by a wolf's head in stone.Over the gate on each side leaned a rowan-tree, with trunk and branches aged and gnarled amidst their fresh foliage.He crossed the burn to look through the gate, and pressed his face between the bars to get a better sight of a tame rabbit that had got out of its hutch.It sat, like a Druid white with age, in the midst of a gravel drive, much overgrown with moss, that led through a young larch wood, with here and there an ancient tree, lonely amidst the youth of its companions.Suddenly from the wood a large spaniel came bounding upon the rabbit.Gibbie gave a shriek, and the rabbit made one white flash into the wood, with the dog after him.He turned away sad at heart.
"Ilka cratur 'at can," he said to himself, "ates ilka cratur 'at canna!"It was his first generalization, but not many years passed before he supplemented it with a conclusion:
"But the man 'at wad be a man, he maunna."Resuming his journey of investigation, he trotted along the bank of the burn, farther and farther up, until he could trot no more, but must go clambering over great stones, or sinking to the knees in bog, patches of it red with iron, from which he would turn away with a shudder.Sometimes he walked in the water, along the bed of the burn itself; sometimes he had to scramble up its steep side, to pass one of the many little cataracts of its descent.Here and there a small silver birch, or a mountain-ash, or a stunted fir-tree, looking like a wizard child, hung over the stream.Its banks were mainly of rock and heather, but now and then a small patch of cultivation intervened.Gibbie had no thought that he was gradually leaving the abodes of men behind him; he knew no reason why in ascending things should change, and be no longer as in plainer ways.
For what he knew, there might be farm after farm, up and up for ever, to the gates of heaven.But it would no longer have troubled him greatly to leave all houses behind him for a season.A great purple foxglove could do much now--just at this phase of his story, to make him forget--not the human face divine, but the loss of it.
A lark aloft in the blue, from whose heart, as from a fountain whose roots were lost in the air, its natural source, issued, not a stream, but an ever spreading lake of song, was now more to him than the memory of any human voice he had ever heard, except his father's and Sambo's.But he was not yet quite out and away from the dwellings of his kind.
I may as well now make the attempt to give some idea of Gibbie's appearance, as he showed after so long wandering.Of dress he had hardly enough left to carry the name.Shoes, of course, he had none.Of the shape of trousers there remained nothing, except the division before and behind in the short petticoat to which they were reduced; and those rudimentary divisions were lost in the multitude of rents of equal apparent significance.He had never, so far as he knew, had a shirt upon his body; and his sole other garment was a jacket, so much too large for him, that to retain the use of his hands he had folded back the sleeves quite to his elbows.Thus reversed they became pockets, the only ones he had, and in them he stowed whatever provisions were given him of which he could not make immediate use--porridge and sowens and mashed potatoes included:
they served him, in fact, like the first of the stomachs of those animals which have more than one--concerning which animals, by the way, I should much like to know what they were in "Pythagoras'
time." His head had plentiful protection in his own natural crop--had never either had or required any other.That would have been of the gold order, had not a great part of its colour been sunburnt, rained, and frozen out of it.All ways it pointed, as if surcharged with electric fluid, crowning him with a wildness which was in amusing contrast with the placidity of his countenance.
