midnight
Widow Neil was dead ; but one day I discovered , by mere chance , that the murder I committed in her house was on a _ sheep _ . Gentle reader , the simple circumstances I am about to relate to you , hang upon what is termed -- a bad omen . There are few amongst the uneducated who have not a degree of faith in omens ; and even amongst the better educated and well informed there are many who , while they profess to disbelieve them , and , indeed , do disbelieve them , yet feel them in their hours of solitude . I have known individuals who , in the hour of danger , would have braved the cannon 's mouth , or defied death to his teeth , who , nevertheless , would have buried their heads in the bedclothes at the howling of a dog at midnight , or spent a sleepless night from hearing the tick , tick , of the spider , or the untiring song of the kitchen-fire musician -- the jolly little cricket . The age of omens , however , is drawing to a close ; for truth in its progress is trampling delusion of every kind under its feet ; yet , after all , though a belief in omens is a superstition , it is one that carries with it a portion of the poetry of our nature . But to proceed with our story . Several years ago I was on my way from B -- to Edinburgh ; and being as familiar with every cottage , tree , shrub , and whin-bush on the Dunbar and Lauder roads as with the face of an acquaintance , I made choice of the less-frequented path by Longformacus .