THE FOUR SILVER PEACHES.
"Beyond the Frith of Clyde, the Kyles of Bute cleaving their way among gray cliffs, tapestried with mosses and richly clothed with lichens, past Loch Ridan's clear waters, past the peninsula of Cantyre, on the bosom of the Atlantic, lies a group of islets, varied in hue and form,—the Hebrides.
"To this isolated region, where the ocean hurls in winter storms against the rock walls, or ripples in caressing waves under summer skies, we will turn; for children have been born on that rugged shore, scenting the heather and wild thyme with their first breath.
"On the island of Iona, near Port St. Ronain, there once lived a good man, who had three strong sons, and two ruddy, blue-eyed daughters. One thing troubled him: little Neil, his nephew, did not thrive so well; for he was a cripple, and it saddened the uncle's heart to see the boy droop and pine away.
"Little Neil was an orphan; and he missed a good mother so much, that he was not happy, like his sturdy cousins. He could never run along the stretch of white sand, flecked with quartz and shells from the Ross of Mull. No: he could only creep painfully to the brink of the green, crystal waters, to peep into their clear depths; or climb to some higher eminence, and watch the sea-birds in their rapid flight, the distant outline of cliffs shining in the sunlight, and the light breeze curling the waves crisply about the bows of many a little craft that skimmed over the azure sea only to melt into the hazy distance.
"Neil loved the ocean and the sky above it, embracing between them his island home. Everybody thought him a strange child, and this naturally gave him very bitter feelings: it seemed to him he should like so much to be his cousin Angus, who hunted the otter and tended the sheep, sleeping many a night upon the open hillside, wrapped in his plaid.
"The lame child had never been at school; yet he had heard the traditions of his home often related about the winter fireside. He had heard the grandeur of Fingal's Cave described; the stone cairn that marks the last resting-place of the Scandinavian woman, whose wish it was to be buried in the pathway of the Norway wind; and the castle of Duart, where a lord of the isles left his wife to be overwhelmed by the rising tide. Then, too, he had shuddered with fear over many a tale of ghosts and goblins haunting ruined houses; for the Scotch people are superstitious.
"The great day of the year arrived, and all the cousins went to the fair held at Broadford, on the Isle of Skye. Little Neil had once been there, to see the women with smart caps and scarlet tartans grouped about their cows and sheep, while the men and boys passed in restless, changing crowds; but the noise and bustle wearied him, so he remained at home.
"Now I am coming to the real matter of the story: the kernel shall be ready for your appetite, if you have but the patience to crack the shell. We will see what kind of entertainment was prepared for the lonely cripple, who told his thoughts to no one, and chose the whispering winds for companions.
"When the sun sank over the broad ocean, little Neil sought a favorite nook in which to watch the long day die. Fainter grew the rich hues of the western sky, more distant the line of rocks, here outlined in creamy whiteness, there abruptly riven by some black precipice, until Neil fancied strange forms were flitting about the bases of the cliffs, and rose to go; but he was stayed by a curious sight. The sea was glimmering with a phosphorescent light, and the waves that broke upon the shore were gemmed with globules of living fire, which melted away almost imperceptibly into rosy shades. The boy had often seen the ocean thus illuminated; but his gaze was attracted to a certain point, where the brilliancy centred in a wave of beautiful transparency, through which glittered emerald and golden flashes, appearing and disappearing in rapid succession, until Neil was dazzled by the splendid sight.