AIRNTABLEdominates the view: it shuts out the world beyond and throws its deep shadow over moors and moss-hags where Covenanters fled, nimble-footed, from the heavy-mounted dragoons of Clavers and Lee. A delicate haze softens the distance, and the grey-blue sky and the pale grey mist imperceptibly blend into each other. The cosy looking farm-houses in the valley are seen through the environing trees, stripped of their leaves, with branches delicately interlacing, like a homely face softened and refined by the lace-work of a veil. The Wealth 0' Waters, well named, races through its rocky bed in miniature cataracts and waterfalls and lifts up a brawling, braggart voice in the rocky shallows as it hastes to join the Ayr, its deep, rugged valley a striking contrast to the smiling fields through which it cuts its way. The beech trees stand bare and beautiful but like a daintiest carpet of Indian red, the fallen leaves border the edges of the woods, or lie, a soft, bright patch of colour on the yellowish-green of the mossy grass by which the isolated trees are surrounded. In the hedges the russet-red of the low-growing beech is still conspicuous, bright bars athwart the bluish-purple of the hawthorn branches. Or here or there is a long stretch of hedge of beech, winding uphill and down dale, a fiery border to the dull, grey road. Again comes the purplish hawthorn, with long trails of bramble-berry leaves of every shade of crimson and green and yellow; the bright red seed-pods of the dog-rose gleam like stars in the dark hedges. All over the country-side there are belts of fir, dark green and intensely restful to the eye, standing compact and firm like an unbroken line of soldiers, or with their palm-like outspreading branches clearly defined against the blue of the sky, as they march single file along a field hedge-bank. Deep down in a valley there is a quaint little clachan built beside a bridge, so low, and the road leading to it so steep, that one could almost throw stones into its chimneys. Some of the small cottages are built far under the level of the road, and the inhabitants, as the infrequent stranger passes by, climb a few steps and thrust their heads above the level of the roadway, only the faces seen, like a mushroom growth of human kind. The shoemaker stands at his door arrayed in his leather apron, and the guid wife also, with arms akimbo and floury hands from her baking; a dog barks aggressively, and white barn-door fowls flee in aimless helter-skelter. Beyond the bridge which spans the brook, the road rises steeply, and, looking back, the red beech hedge, the bridge, the elbow-like turn in the road and the homely cottages with the hill as a background, form a pleasing picture of quiet, rural beauty.

Cairntable disappears and the fir-trees march in battle array along the road: or rather, it is a church, and we wander among the pillars, and hear the choir sing, soft and low, from the holy rood. Then the way is paved with leaves of the beech trees, and the road goes down and down and turns, and once more there is a bridge and the Cleugh falls into the Ayr. And the high bank of the Ayr is wooded, and on the low bank opposite, the trees are decked in garments of every shade of red and brown and gold and green; and see how daintily they lift their skirts that the river may not splash them, and nod proud heads to the Autumn sky. And the Ayr, "gurgling, kisses its pebbly shore," or its waters are imprisoned for a little while in a long slanting weir, as it bends gently to the south; and high on its rocky hank stands the Castle of Sorn, like an old-world picture, with red walls and quaint chimney-stacks appearing above the trees. Lean over the bridge awhile and gaze upon the scene. It is a picture of idyllic loveliness and peace, with only the murmur of the water breaking the peaceful stillness. The road still winds downhill, and in the valley through which the Ayr flows in stately fashion stands the little village of Sorn. A bridge, high in the centre, with two arches, spans the river, a quaint old bridge that seems to have stepped out of some Flemish picture, but finding itself quite at home in this beautiful spot has resolved to stay, and so adds to its charm. A mill is built beside the bridge and a cottage, white washed, with roses climbing to its thatched roof. And close by stands the parish church, its walls of red sandstone which two hundred years of wind and weather have but little stained, its little open belfry, its outside stairs to the lofts or galleries worn by the feet of many generations of worshippers, and around it lie the quiet dead. And truly there could not be found a resting-place in a more beautiful spot. On the hill-side above the fir trees stand solemn in their perpetual green; along the churchyard wall the beech, in Spring, sends forth tiny buds of hope; and in Autumn blazes into a triumphant red, like a shout of joy. The yew tree is there, so long-lived as to seem immortal, and sweet flowers which fade so soon, like human-blossoms, early gathered And the river glides on to the sea, murmuring and talking as it goes, singing softly sometimes, but silent in its deepest depths. Does it tell of life and death, of joy and sorrow, of sunshine and shadow, of narrow ravines, dark and dismal and God forgotten, and lovely plains like smiles of Heaven? Does it tell of work, as it turns the mill-wheel, the panacea of all woes? Does it dream, like Jacob, as it lies asleep on its stony bed, of a ladder, which reaches to Heaven? Does it whisper so gently to those who are lying still beside it of eternity and immortality and life? Or is it mourning as it goes, fretting and complaining, wailing out in the night time that it must hurry onwards to the sea, to be lost in the world of waters, to be forgotten, to be drowned and never found again?

And thus 'twill flow for ever,
Till Time shall cease to be
Oh, weary, weary river,
Oh, bitter, barren sea

And the villagers quietly live on the riverbank and place flowers in their cottage windows, and the women sing at their work, and at nights the red glow of household fires streams out into the darkness. And the flyer flows on unceasingly and each one interprets the voice of the waters for himself. The parish of Sorn forms nearly a square of about 6 miles. It is bounded on the east by Muirkirk, on the west by Mauchline, on the north by Galston, and on the south by Auchinleck. Sorn did not exist as a separate parish until 1692. It was then detached from the overgrown parish of Mauchline, which until a few years of that time included Muirkirk also. It formed part of the original grant to the monks of Melrose made by Walter the High Steward in the twelfth century. It was then in a state of nature, but doubtless was cared for, as time passed, by the monks, the agriculturists of the day. In the present parish of Muirkirk, then the further confines of the large parish of Mauchline, the monks erected a chapel on the Water of Greenock for the convenience of the people, and another, dedicated to St. Cuthbert, in the present parish of Sorn, in a field eastward of the village of Catrine, called St. Cuthbert's Holm to this day.

After the Reformation, the barren lands which the monks acquired four hundred years previously were gifted by the Crown to Hugh, Lord Loudoun, and if the description at all tallies with the gift, the monks and their tenants had not been idle. The following is an extract from the deed of gift- " All and haill the landis, lordschip and baronies, with castellis, townis, fortalises, maner places, yairdis, orchardis, houss biggingis, mylnis, multuris, woodis, fischengis, tennentis, tennandries, seruice of frie tennentis, few-fermes, annexis, connexis, dependences, pairtis, pendiclis, and pertenentis of the same quhatsumevir," etc. It is very interesting to notice how that the lennenlis, tenandries, and seruice effrie tennentis are particularly mentioned, showing the condition of serfdom or slavery of the people; the tennentis, who were bought and sold with the land, and the frie tennentis, who held their land under a tenure of service to their lord, and who could not leave the place without his permission. A church was built at Dalgain in 1658, although it was not until 1692 that the establishment of the new parish was completed. The parish was first called Dalgain, and the ground on which the church and manse was built, and also the glebe, were a gift from Hugh Mitchell of Dalgain. The church became known as the Kirk of Sorn, possibly because of the near vicinity of Sorn Castle, and gradually the name was adopted for the whole parish. The word Sorn is Celtic, and means a projection, or promontory or snout, and may have been applied originally to the rocky eminence on which the castle was built. Dalgain is also Celtic, and means the field of sand or gravel (Dal and gaineimh), a name which accurately describes the site of the ancient house, In Cornwall and South Devon, where the Celtic language was spoken until the beginning of last century, and where traces of it still linger in the speech of the country people, many of the place names show their Celtic origin. Such is Torquay in Devon, for being Celtic for a hill, and there is a village called Sorne in Cornwall. In the island of Mull there is a farm called Sorn. Thus the names show the footprints of history.

The parish of Sorn contains two villages, that of Sorn and that of Catrine. The village of Sorn is built almost in the centre of the parish, about four miles from Mauchline station, and consists principally of a long street extending along the bank of the River Ayr. The church, the manse, the mill, and the bridge are all clustered together at the bottom of a steep hill, while the village street begins at a bend in the road a few hundreds of yards away. It is a clean, tidy, little village, with houses built on a line with the road. Behind some of the houses there is another row of dwellings reached by closes from the front a very characteristically Scottish style of architecture and which may be seen exemplified at its best (or worst) in the old streets of Edinburgh and Perth. It is a matter of regret that Scottish village houses have not as a rule the little plots of ground in front which English villagers cultivate so assiduously, and which help to make the country villages so pleasant and picturesque. In Sorn, as in other places, the gardens are principally behind the houses. Most of the houses are good, of one or two stories in height, and are above the average of village houses, especially of a village so remote from a railway. There are about 300 inhabitants, and besides the usual tradesmen, the population consists chiefly of miners. Fifty years ago Sorn was not cut off from its neighbours in its present isolated condition, and for that time it was wonderfully far advanced. The mail gig, with the mail from Ayr and Kilmarnock to London, passed through Sorn every morning on its way to Douglas Mill, where it met the mail coach from Glasgow to London, and awaited the arrival of the mail from London to Glasgow. On the afternoon of the same day it returned, bearing the mail bags for Ayr, Kilmarnock, Cumnock, and Mauchline: and so the little Scottish village was within forty-four hours of the metropolis. The mail coach for the south passed through Mauchline every afternoon. Now there is daily communication with Mauchline by means of a post cart, and by omnibus twice a week and the bicycle, that modern invention which does so much to annihilate distance, brings Sorn within a few minutes of Mauchline and railways.