"A life on the ocean wave,
A home on the rolling deep".
Well, any man who is worth the noble name of sailor loves his ship, and looks upon her as "home" in the real sense of the word. Nor does he long for any other while the commission lasts. But oh! when the order to return comes on board, then there is something within him that, though it may have been slumbering for years, awakes at once, and he is eager, even to excitement, to see once more the woods and flowery fields of England, or the wild straths and glens of green Caledonia.
When the boat discharged Willie and Creggan at Portree, the latter felt that he was indeed at home.
"No, Willie, we won't walk. I'm too impatient far for that."
"I'll do whatever you do, old man."
So they hired a fast horse and dogcart; the driver a man who could hold the ribbons well, the nag as sure-footed as a mule.
The day was bright and bracing, so that Creggan's spirits rose with every milestone passed.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Perhaps in no country in all the wide world is the early autumn more lovely than in our own dear Scottish Highlands. The fierce heat of summer that erst was reflected from the lofty crags and mountain brows to the straths below, is mitigated now. The grass is still green in the bonnie bosky dells, through which streamlets meander over their pebbly beds and go singing to the sea. Though the winds are whispering now among the birchen foliage, and the tall needled pine-trees, with a harsher voice than that of sweet spring-time, the tall ferns in many a quiet and sylvan nook wave wild and bonnie, their fronds of green and brown making a charming background to the crimson nodding bells of the foxglove. And the hills above are purple and crimson with heather and heath, with many a rugged crag or gray rock peeping through, which only serve to enhance their beauty.
But here in the north of Skye are no trees, though the heather is a sight to see, and so you hardly miss the dark waving pines.