But whiles ye can get oot in the free air.

Ye can lee doon upon yer back on the turf and look up at the blue sky and the bricht sun, and hear the skylark singing high above ye, or the call o' the auld hoot owl at nicht.
I think it's the evenings, when I'm held a prisoner in the city, mak' me lang maist for the country.

There's a joy to a country evening.
Whiles it's winter.

But within it's snug.

There's the wind howling doon the chimney, but there's the fire blazing upon the hearth, and the kettle singing it's bit sang on the hob.