Gents Mag 1900 part 2 p.362
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Gentleman's Magazine 1900 part 2 p.362
It is a far cry, even in memory, from a balmy July night's ramble to a night when deep snow lies on the silent fells, and a million stars glower upon the freezing earth. I have elsewhere spoken of the summer midnight and the silence of Mickleden, but this is vaster, more complete quietude. Our point was a fine moorland tarn at a fair elevation, a well-known haunt of waterfowl. Scrambling along the steep grassy road to the moor was exhausting, but when we reached the bracken track of the open fell the energy required to move along at all was enormous. At every step the deep snow attached itself to our shoes, so we crashed into the deepest belt of heather. The frost was inching when we started, but though the air must have been colder at this elevation, its bite was unfelt in the heat of our struggle. Passing a marshy corner a pair of ducks rose - what a lovely night for snaring! The tarn was not yet completely frozen, and wavelets were plashing against the extended sheets of ice. Between us and the fir-crowned island, as we stood thigh deep in the snow-drift by the boat-house, was the stream feeding the water, and it was to watch the birds here that we had ventured out to-night. We climbed round the hill, sliding about among the beds of dead bracken, then skirted the rocks commanding the tarn and its surroundings. Miles away to the south-west glittered an estuary with the sea beyond; to the north a mist-bank hid a long line of mountains, while to the east a dreary white chain of hills stood beyond Lunesdale. Dotted near and far were gems - mountain tarn and open river-reach, with the bright moonlight glinting up from them. We proceeded cautiousy towards a bank from which we might watch the birds. The snow stuck to our boots, and quiet progress was almost impossible. However, after a long chilly crawl down a hollow sledge track, which led from the moor to the river-bed, we gained the desired situation. Not a bird was in sight. We lay in the deep snow awhile, for there was a faint splash and a squawking in the reed-beds, than a gaunt heron waded slowly up the stream. We almost held our breath lest he should take alarm, and scare away the rarer ducks. Meanwhile the air was getting colder and colder - it was recorded in the valley below as five degrees below zero. There was no wind, however, through our lair, and the position was not very uncomfortable. In a few minutes a squad of ducks came from the tarn to join the heron's feast - a garrulous crew to a taciturn leader. A curlew, probably startled by a prowling fox, whistled across the water; the heron took his warning signal, and flapped over the corner of the hill to a quieter feeding ground. My companion made a sudden movement, and a sheep which, unknown to us, had been lying within a yard of my |
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