"Food? Well, madam, in summer we were not so badly off; we had oatmeal and fish and a herring harvest. But in some icy winters, when we couldn't launch a boat, and when fishing from the rocks was useless, as the mullet refused to bite, we lived principally on oatmeal—often bad at the best,—and limpets that we gathered from the great black rocks when the tide was back. They are poor eating, but we gathered dulse from the boulders, roasted it with a red-hot poker, and ate it with the limpets. At every door you would have seen a large pile of empty limpet-shells, that told of the poverty within.
"My father's hut was one of two rooms. Our two cows were turned into one at night and we occupied the other. There were many other huts with two rooms and a cow, or perhaps more than one. Often the dividing partition between the cow's room and the family apartment was but a few ragged old Highland plaids hung upon a rope.
"They used to say that the breath of the kine and the smoke were healthy, and kept us all strong and hardy. Well, as a boy I preferred the fresh air. I got plenty of this, because every day it was my duty to collect all the cattle in the village, after they had been milked, and, assisted by two honest collie dogs, drive them far away to the uplands for pasture. Would you believe it, madam, that even this privilege was finally taken from us, and there being but little herbage in the glen, many of us had to take our cows to Portree and sell them? Yes, our homes were miserable enough; but still they were homes, and we dearly loved them—loved the seas that swept the craggy shores, loved the green braes, the rocks and cliffs, and the grand old hills that frowned brown o'er all the scene. For home is home, be it ever so humble.
"Well, I grew up to manhood. Both father and mother were now dead, and when one day the neighbours saw me and some friends start building a better sort of hut, they smiled to each other, nodded and winked. They knew what was coming. True enough, for I loved sweet Mary Gray as I believe only Highlanders can love. I won't bother you with this part of my history. But I just went on building my house. You see it was like this, madam. Many of the lads of the glen went every year to the herring-fishery at Peterhead, and thus we saved a little money; why, I even got real glass windows from Portree, and had a real chimney in my hut, chairs, and a good bed. I built also a byre for my two cows, so that I was considered the richest man in the glen.
"Then one day Mary and I got married, and I'm sure that when we were settled in our home there was no more happy couple in all the glen, or in any other glen. I had no ambition then. I only wanted to live and die in our cottage by the sea. And I used to take down my fiddle, a gift from an Englishman whom I had saved from drowning, and sing over it such love ditties as this."
And the hermit played:
"O, whar was ye sae[[2]] late yestreen,
My bonnie Jeannie Gray?
Your mither missed you late at e'en,
And eke at break o' day."
* * * * * * * *
"Dear sister, sit ye doon by me,
And let nae body ken,
For I hae promised late yestreen
To wed young Jamie Glen."
[[2]] To English boys. 'Sae' and 'hae' are pronounced 'say' and 'hay', and in all Scotch words ending in '-ae' the 'ae' sounds like 'ay'.