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- Джон Бакен
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- Запретный лес
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- Стр. 154/195
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In
the
first
week
of
the
New
Year
the
miraculous
weather
showed
no
sign
of
breaking
.
The
sun
from
rising
to
setting
shone
temperately
in
a
clear
sky
,
the
nights
were
little
less
warm
than
May
,
and
even
the
old
folk
cast
the
blankets
from
them
and
opened
the
doors
of
their
press
-
beds
;
the
peat
-
stacks
and
the
fuel
-
stacks
were
scarcely
touched
,
and
the
fires
smouldered
only
for
cooking
;
the
burns
were
shrunken
to
summer
size
,
and
the
spawning
fish
could
not
pass
the
shallows
of
Rood
.
But
a
change
had
come
over
the
mind
of
the
parish
.
Men
no
longer
called
down
blessings
on
the
fine
open
winter
,
for
such
weather
seemed
in
defiance
of
nature
,
and
an
uneasy
anticipation
of
portents
weighed
on
their
spirits
.
The
sun
did
not
warm
,
the
unclouded
skies
did
not
cheer
,
the
hard
roads
did
not
invite
to
movement
.
A
curious
languor
fell
upon
Woodilee
.
It
seemed
as
if
the
same
apprehension
were
felt
by
the
natural
world
.
The
cattle
and
sheep
,
in
spite
of
the
good
pasture
,
grew
thinner
than
in
the
rigours
of
winter
.
The
packman
’
s
pony
turned
away
from
the
rich
bite
by
the
roadside
.
Though
the
air
was
cool
and
tonic
,
beast
and
man
sweated
with
the
smallest
exertion
.
David
,
tramping
the
high
moors
,
found
that
he
was
more
weary
after
five
miles
than
after
twenty
in
the
summer
heats
.
The
deer
from
Melanudrigill
had
none
of
their
winter
boldness
,
and
indeed
all
wild
animals
had
become
shyer
of
the
presence
of
man
than
the
oldest
inhabitant
remembered
.
But
all
were
aware
and
restless
;
there
were
more
worm
-
casts
on
the
turf
than
in
spring
,
and
migrant
birds
,
which
usually
tarried
long
in
the
sheltered
glen
,
now
passed
high
in
air
for
the
south
.
David
saw
many
a
drove
as
he
opened
his
window
in
the
morning
.
Even
the
fieldfares
,
which
Amos
Ritchie
used
to
snare
in
the
Mirehope
fields
,
did
not
come
within
sight
of
his
bird
-
lime
.
.
.
.
A
brooding
strangeness
had
come
into
the
air
,
and
apathy
silenced
the
very
tykes
in
the
village
street
.
Neighbours
rarely
gathered
at
Lucky
Weir
’
s
for
a
mutchkin
,
though
it
was
thirsty
weather
;
men
seemed
to
be
afraid
lest
what
they
saw
in
another
’
s
eye
might
give
substance
to
their
own
fears
.
Peter
Pennecuik
,
sitting
on
the
stone
by
the
smithy
door
and
mopping
a
wet
forehead
,
watched
Amos
drop
his
tools
heavily
as
he
returned
from
a
job
at
Reiverslaw
.
"
What
mak
’
ye
o
’
the
weather
?
"
he
asked
.
Amos
straightened
his
back
.
"
I
dinna
like
it
.
The
gillyflowers
in
my
yaird
are
ettlin
’
to
bloom
.
My
grannie
had
a
verse
o
’
auld
Thomas
the
Rhymer
-
-
what
was
it
?
-
-
"
A
Yule
wi
’
out
snaws
,
A
Januar
’
wi
’
haws
,
Bring
the
deid
thraws
.
"
