Abstract
That is the Land out there, under the sleet, churned and pelted there in the dark, the long rigs upturning their clayey faces to the spear-onset of the sleet. That is the Land, a dim vision this night of laggard fences and long stretching rigs. And the voice of it the true and unforgettable voice you can hear even such a night as this as the dark comes down, the immemorial plaint of the peewit, flying lost. That is the Land though not quite all. Those folk in the byre whose lattern light is a glimmer through the sleet as they muck and bed and tend the kye, and milk the milk into tin pails, in curling froth they are The Land in as great a measure. (Lewis Grassic Gibbon, 'The Land', reprinted in The Speak of the Mearns , 1994, p. 152)
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