Sheila Braine, The golden story book (1913)
“ The sun, not a great way as yet above the low peat hills that edged the little valley to eastwards, flung the shadow of the grey peel-tower far along the grass, and Long John o' the Limp shifted his legs to bring them into the sunshine."Hey! but I must be growing old, for I get as fond of warmth nowadays as a cat of the fire," grunted the moss-trooper, his keen eye following the course of the stream that gurgled among its rushes as it flowed from the Scottish border, "and yet—if those reiving loons came riding here I doubt not they would find some bite still left in these withered jaws!" ”
