And so, accompanied by his faithful dog, the piper ventured into the cave, playing boldly as we went. At the entrance, the locals waited and listened.

Hours passed and the pipes grew quieter until there was no sound at all. Suddenly the hound, once shaggy, ran out of the cave howling, without a single hair left on his shivering body.

The cave was left untouched until, one day as the earth was thawing, an old piper appeared with a dog. The rough hound was as grey as the beard of its owner. The piper was surely the finest in the land (as no doubt was his father before him).

His bagpipes were crudely made and yet, from this instrument, came a merry sound that even stopped the crows from cawing. No one had heard such cheerful tunes.