THERE are days—and even seasons—when to the enthusiastic walker his favourite books make but a slight appeal. Indeed on such occasions you need not be surprised if you find him asserting, heretically and dogmatically, that there is no book that will rival in his affection the frayed and tattered and rain‐stained map that has so often been his companion on hill and moor. On the winter evenings, when the curtains are drawn and the rain‐storm whips the window pane, he will pore over it for many an hour, following again in fancy the paths he has trodden in the long summer days, recapturing perhaps the view that opened up before him when, rounding the hillside above Durisdeer, he looked over the gently swelling hills of Nithsdale with their woods, their trim fields, their white farm houses, set against the grey‐blue background of far‐off mountains of Galloway.
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