Herman Cyril McNeile

“ The colours of the moors were sombre and dark; and below the snows far away in the heart of Ross-shire it seemed to the man who watched with brooding eyes that it was as the blackness of night. A deserted dead world, with a cold grey shroud, to hide its nakedness.
He shivered again, and wiped the moisture from his face, while a terrier beside him crept nearer for comfort.
And then came the change. Swiftly, triumphantly, the sun caught the mist and rolled it away. One by one the rugged lines of hills came into being again--one by one they shouted, "We are free, behold us. . . ." ”

“ And as he straightened himself up, of a sudden it seemed to the man that the mountains and the moors, the tarn and the bogland approved of the change in him, and, finding him worthy, told him their message.
"The Sun will always triumph," they cried in a mighty chorus. "Sooner or later the mist will always go." ”

“ Gradually the brooding look on the man's face faded, a gleam of whimsical humour shone in his eyes. He took an old briar out of his pocket and commenced to fill it; and soon the blue smoke was curling lazily upwards into the still air. ”