A leg­endary lo­cal fig­ure


Strathearn Herald - - MEMORY LANE -

Thrice a hun­dred years have come and gone since then, and still the rush­ing Tur­ret flings its foam from bank to bank and rock to rock and wim­ples qui­etly into Earn; only the rocks were sharper, and the woods thicker up and down the glen in those far off days.

Near the meeting of the wa­ters, and among the thick­est of the woods, a lit­tle clearing might have been dis­cov­ered by the cu­ri­ous.

A cosy dwelling lit­tle more than a hut, sat con­tent­edly in the patch, in which grew the in­evitable kail, and the in­dige­nous parsnip.

The ex­te­rior was built of stout logs of spruce, squared, and fit­ted with an in­te­rior skin of dressed red pine, with­out paint or var­nish. The roof was thatched with heather. The sweet­ness of the in­te­rior was en­hanced by the tidy ar­range­ment of the sim­ple fur­ni­ture. A three-legged pot, sus­pended from a brightly pol­ished swee, bub­bled over a cheer­ful wood fire on the open hearth. On two sides of the liv­ing room were some shelves filled with books, which were ev­i­dently not there for or­na­ment.

An in­ner door led to the sanc­tu­ary of her own bed­room, into which no one was known to have been per­mit­ted to en­ter but her­self.

Such was Ep­pie Cal­lum’s house. • See more next week.

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