BLEATARN GHYLL It was getting dark when Kit and Tom, the shepherd, stopped to rest behind a cairn on the summit of Swinset moor.

Close by, the two score sheep stood in a compact flock, with heads towards the panting dogs.

They were Herdwicks, a small, hardy breed that best withstands the rain and snow that sweep the high fells in the lambing season.

When he had lighted his pipe, Kit thoughtfully looked about.
On one side the barren moor, getting dim in the distance, rolled back to the edge of the low country.

Here and there patches of melting sleet gleamed a livid white among the withered ling, and storm-torn hummocks of peaty soil shone dark chocolate-brown.