One night we had a delightful camping-ground on the edge of a Lochan well stocked with duck, which Boggley set out to shoot and ended by missing gloriously.
"Olivia in India"
O. Douglas
Thus Syrinx still lives-still dies: "A note of music by its own breath slain, Blown tenderly from the frail heart of a reed," and as the evening light comes down on silent places and the trembling shadows fall on the water, we can hear her mournful whisper through the swaying reeds, brown and silvery-golden, that grow by lonely Lochan and lake and river.
"A Book of Myths"
Jean Lang
To his reiterated question as to where he was, and if the tarn were Feur-Lochan above Fionnaphort that is on the strait of Iona on the west side of the Ross of Mull, she did not at first make any answer.
"The Best Psychic Stories"
Various