HIGHLAND SNOW STORM （Ⅰ）
JOHN WILSON，born in 1788，and recently deceased，was，for many years，a professor in the university at Edinburgh，Scotland，the principal editor，under the name of Christopher North，of Blackwood’s Magazine，the author of Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life，etc.，and of many exquisite fugitive pieces in prose and poetry.He is remarkable for depth of pathos，beauty of imagery，keenness of wit，and his genial sympathies with all the finer feelings.
1.ONE family lived in Glen Creran，and another in Glenco，the families of two brothers，seldom visiting each other on working days，seldom meeting even on Sabbaths，for theirs was not the same parish kirk；seldom coming together on rural festivals or holidays，for in the Highlands now these are not so frequent as of yore；yet all these sweet seldoms，taken together，to loving hearts made a happy many，and thus，though each family passed its life in its own home，there were many invisible threads stretched out through the intermediate air，connecting the two dwellings together，as the gossamer keeps floating from one tree to another，each with its own secret nest.And nest-like both dwellings were.
2.That in Glenco was built beneath a treeless but high heathered rock，lone in all storms，with greensward and garden on a slope down to a rivulet，the clearest of the clear，（oh，once woefully reddened！）and growing，so it seems，in the mosses of its own roof，and the huge stones that overshadow it，out of the earth.That in Glencreran was more conspicuous，on a knoll among the pastoral meadows，midwaybetween mountain and mountain，so that the grove which shelters it，except when the sun is shining high，is darkened by their meeting shadows，and dark indeed，even in the sunshine，for ‘tis a low but wide-armed grove of old oak-like pines.
Glencoe village in the Scottish Highlands from the summit of the Pap of Glencoe3.These huts belonged to brothers，and each had an only child，a son and a daughter，born on the same day and now blooming on the verge of youth.A year ago and they were but mere children；but what wondrous growth of frame and spirit does nature at that season of life often present before our eyes！So that we almost see the very change going on between morn and morn，and feel that these objects of affection are daily brought closer and closer to ourselves，by partaking daily more and more in all our most sacred thoughts，in our cares and in our duties，and in knowledge of the sorrows as well as the joys of our common lot.
4.Thus had these cousins grown up before their parents’eyes：Flora Macdonald，a name hallowed of yore，the fairest，and Ronald Cameron，the boldest of all the living flowers in Glenco and Glencreran.It wasnow their seventeenth birthday，and never had a winter sun smiled more serenely over a knoll of snow.Flora，it had been agreed，was to pass that day in Glencreran，and Ronald to meet her among the mountains，that he might bring her down the many precipitous passes to his parents‘hut.It was the middle of February，and the snow had lain for weeks with all its drifts unchanged，so calm had been the weather，and so continued the frost.At the same hour，known by horologe on the cliff，touched by the finger of dawn，the happy creatures left each their own glen，and mile after mile of the smooth surface glided away past their feet，almost as the quiet water glides by the little boat，that in favoring breezes walks merrily along the sea.And soon they met at the trysting place，a bank of birch-trees，beneath a cliff that takes its name from the eagles.
5.On their meeting，seemed not to them the whole of nature suddenly inspired with joy and beauty？Insects，unheard by them before，hummed and glittered in the air；from tree roots，where the snow was thin，little flowers，or herbs，flower-like，now for the first time were seen looking out，as if alive；the trees themselves seemed budding，as if it were already spring；and rare as in that rocky region are the birds of song，a faint trill for a moment touched their ears，and a flutter of a wing，telling them that somewhere near，there was preparation for a nest.Deep down beneath the snow they listened to the tinkle of rills un reached by the frost，and merry，thought they，was the music of these contented prisoners.
6.Flora sang to Ronald many of her old songs，to those wild Gaelic airs that sound like the sighing winds among fractured cliffs，or the branches of storm-tossed trees，when the subsiding of tempests is about to let them rest.Monotonous music！but irresistible over the heart it has once awakened and enthralled，so sincere seems to be the mournfulness it breathes，a mournfulness brooding and feeding on the same note，that is at once its natural expression and sweetest aliment，of which the singer never wearieth in her dream，while herheart all the time is haunted by all that is most piteous，by the faces of the dead in their paleness returning to the shades of life，only that once more they may pour from their fixed eyes those strange showers of unaccountable tears！
7.How merry were they between those mournful airs！How Flora trembled to see her lover’s burning brow and flashing eyes，as he told her tales of great battles fought in foreign lands，far across the sea，tales which he had drunk in with greedy ears from the old heroes scattered all over Lochabar and Badenach，on the brink of the grave，still garrulous of blood！