Gents Mag 1902 part 2 p.420
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Gentleman's Magazine 1902 part 2 p.420
see the direction of the leaden hail, and in a few seconds they seek cover. For two hours the old man within that grey-walled structure forbids advance. Then, after an officer, while incautiously exposing himself to reconnoitre, has been killed, a field gun is ordered to open fire and drive the enemy from his hold. Two shells crash into the old building - its thick grey walls are pierced easily as paper - and after each there is an appalling explosion. Then the rifle fire ceases. The fighting schoolmaster is dead. |
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Story of a Climb Blea Tarn Crag |
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II. - THE STORY OF A CLIMB.
THOUGH it was not yet sunrise, Joe Graves was discussing his simple breakfast. He was alone, for his sister had long since married and gone to a distant home of her own, but he never seriously thought of engaging a substitute. "I can fend best for mesel'," was his invariable reply to all who suggested the matter to him. Jem Bate opened the door and walked in. "Will you go to Blea Tarn Crag to-day, Joe?" he asked, without even a prefatory greeting; "the ground is in rare fettle for cragging." "Too dry," was the reply, "but I'll go. It's ower bonnie a day to stop in the boddem. We mustn't take too much rope, or we may have a smash. Half a dozen yards should be about enough. There's no pitch on Blea Tarn Crag as'll want more." After this they talked awhile of the different routes by which this crag is scaled, and determined to try one which was as yet unclimbed. His meal finished, Grave produced an assortment of ropes, out of which the most suitable was selected; then, without further delay, they started. Once clear of the semi-wild garden, the pair put on a pace, for the time at their disposal was limited, considering the object in view. The sun rose as they followed up the bent-grown slack which forms the quickest approach to the mountain of High Street, and by five o'clock they were walking across the summit. The panorama extended for miles over mountains, dales, lakes, and plains, in unequalled grandeur. Far way, with splashes of purple and grey swirling over its tops, was the great mass of Lakeland mountains; to the west Windermere wound away among the quiet, wooded hills, and beyond this shimmered the sea. This clearness was a sure sign of an impending thunderstorm. Their practised strides rapidly bore the pair to the corner where Long Stile extends from the parent range, and beneath which slumbers the ink-like Blea Water. Down the rough rocks they threaded their |
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