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Gentleman's Magazine 1899 part 2 p.545
The shepherd may be driving, on what appears to be a settled
summer day, along an elevated valley, walled in by rocky
ridges, when a cloud drives in behind and beneath him,
completely blotting out dogs and flock in a filmy veil. At
such time young shepherds may lose their bearings and wander
into an adjacent valley, but the dogs will bring their
charges safely home. Sheep do not move far when the mist
hangs, but as soon as it rises make off like the wind.
Experienced men, therefore, simply halt and wait for the
clearing, which may be some hours distant. But even if he
abandoned his flock, the shepherd would come to no harm. The
novice at traversing fells under cloud may suddenly find
himself on a ledge where an incautious movement threatens a
fall into a tremendous chasm, but there have been signs of
this far back. Occasionally a shepherd who has been caught
in the mist walks home in front of his flock, having passed
through without seeing or hearing them. It is obvious that
the air, being surcharged with particles of moisture so fine
and dense as to convey a white impression to the eye, will
not readily carry sound.
There are many opinions as to whether sheep-dogs are ever at
a loss to determine their position as well as that of the
flock. My own idea is that they locate themselves perfectly
by hearing - and it is acknowledged that their sense in this
direction has a wider range than ours. Some of the more
observant shepherds, too, use this power. They are aware of
wide differences in the sound of wind and streams at
different points of their beats, and of this we have a
proof. We were wandering over Bowfell with an old shepherd.
The mist hung in ragged edges half way down the Band; the
ill-marked path ceased at the summit, and we blundered along
towards Esk-hause. The old man allowed us to guide until we
came to where sheer cliffs seemed to drop in every
direction, and we in despair appealed to him.
"Listen," he said.
A curlew whistled far above, the wind lisped among the crags
and screes around, the merry rattle of a distant rill rose
from beneath. The old man, without a word, of explanation,
took us round the hillock, and again we listened. The curlew
was silent, the wind a trifle more boisterous, and the sound
of rushing waters more clear.
"The sound heard on the far side of the hill was that of the
outlet of Angle Tarn" (which, indeed, was almost sheer
below), "whereas you now hear the infant Esk."
The weeks pass on - the days are sultry and the newly shorn
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