Well, the summer and the autumn and the best part of the winter passed
away, and we were still all very happy together. We got well into the
year 1815, and the great Emperor was still eating his heart out at Elba;
and all the ambassadors were wrangling together at Vienna as to what
they should do with the lion's skin, now that they had so fairly hunted
him down. And we in our little corner of Europe went on with our petty
peaceful business, looking after the sheep, attending the Berwick cattle
fairs, and chatting at night round the blazing peat fire. We never
thought that what all these high and mighty people were doing could have
any bearing upon us; and as to war, why everybody was agreed that the
great shadow was lifted from us for ever, and that, unless the Allies
quarrelled among themselves, there would not be a shot fired in Europe
for another fifty years.

There was one incident, however, that stands out very clearly in my
memory. I think that it must have happened about the February of this
year, and I will tell it to you before I go any further.

You know what the border peel castles are like, I have no doubt.
They were just square heaps built every here and there along the line,
so that the folk might have some place of protection against raiders and
mosstroopers. When Percy and his men were over the Marches, then the
people would drive some of their cattle into the yard of the tower, shut
up the big gate, and light a fire in the brazier at the top, which would
be answered by all the other Peel towers, until the lights would go
twinkling up to the Lammermuir Hills, and so carry the news on to the
Pentlands and to Edinburgh. But now, of course, all these old keeps
were warped and crumbling, and made fine nesting places for the wild
birds. Many a good egg have I had for my collection out of the
Corriemuir Peel Tower.