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98 A WINDOW IN THRUMS
wouldna hae been sae fleid if they could hae seen’t,
but it never was seen. It had the soond o’ a
cradle rockin’, an’ when we lay in our beds heark¬
enin’, it grew louder an’ louder till it wasna to be
borne, an’ the women-folk fair skirled wi’ fear. The
mester was intimate wi’ a’ the stories aboot ghosts
an’ water-kelpies an’ sic like, an’ we couldna help
listenin’ to them. But he aye said ’at ghosts ’at
was just heard an’ no seen was the maist fearsome
an’ wicked. For all there was sic fear ower the
hale farm-toon ’at naebody would gang ower the
door alane after the gloamin’ cam, the mester said
he wasna fleid to sleep i’ the kitchen by ’imsel.
We thocht it richt brave o’ ’im, for ye see he was
as helpless as a bairn.
“Richt queer stories rose aboot the cradle, an’
travelled to the ither farms. The wife didna like
them ava, for it was said ’at there maun hae been
some awful murder o’ an infant on the farm, or we
wouldna be haunted by a cradle. Syne folk began
to mind ’at there had been nae bairns born on
the farm as far back as onybody kent, an’ it was
said ’at some lang syne crime had made the bog
cursed.