Scaurnose was perched almost on the point of the promontory, where
the land made its final slope, ending in a precipitous descent to
the shore. Beneath lay rocks of all sizes and of fantastic forms,
some fallen from the cape in tempests perhaps, some softly separated
from it by the slow action of the winds and waves of centuries. A
few of them formed, by their broken defence seawards, the unsafe
natural harbour which was all the place enjoyed.
If ever there was a place of one colour it was this village: everything
was brown; the grass near it was covered with brown nets; at the
doors were brown heaps of oak bark, which, after dyeing the nets,
was used for fuel; the cottages were roofed with old brown thatch;
and the one street and the many closes were dark brown with the
peaty earth which, well mixed with scattered bark, scantily covered
the surface of its huge foundation rock. There was no pavement, and
it was the less needed that the ways were rarely used by wheels of
any description. The village was but a roost, like the dwellings
of the sea birds which also haunted the rocks.
It was a gray morning with a gray sky and a gray sea; all was brown
and gray, peaceful and rather sad. Brown haired, gray eyed Phemy
Mair sat in the threshold, intently rubbing in her hands a small
object like a moonstone. That she should be doing so on a Sunday
would have shocked few in Scaurnose at that time, for the fisher
folk then made but small pretensions to religion; and for his part
Joseph Mair could not believe that the Almighty would be offended
"at seein' a bairn sittin' douce wi' her playocks, though the day
was his.
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