horse. I tried this, and with a
certain success. The horse backed us into the ditch, and would probably
have backed himself into the wagon, if I had continued. When the animal
was at length ready to go, Davie took him by the bridle, ran by his
side, coaxed him into a gallop, and then, leaping in behind, lashed
him into a run, which had little respite for ten miles, uphill or down.
Remonstrance on behalf of the horse was in vain, and it was only on the
return home that this specimen Cape Breton driver began to reflect how
he could erase the welts from the horse's back before his father saw
them.

Our way lay along the charming bay of the Bras d'Or, over the sprawling
bridge of the Big Baddeck, a black, sedgy, lonesome stream, to Middle
River, which debouches out of a scraggy country into a bayou with ragged
shores, about which the Indians have encampments, and in which are the
skeleton stakes of fish-weirs. Saturday night we had seen trout jumping
in the still water above the bridge. We followed the stream up two or
three miles to a Gaelic settlement of farmers. The river here flows
through lovely meadows, sandy, fertile, and sheltered by hills,--a green
Eden, one of the few peaceful inhabited spots in the world. I could
conceive of no news coming to these Highlanders later than the defeat
of the Pretender. Turning from the road, through a lane and crossing a
shallow brook, we reached the dwelling of one of the original McGregors,
or at least as good as an original. Mr. McGregor is a fiery-haired
Scotchman and brother, cordial and hospitable, who entertained our
wayward horse, and freely advised us where the trout on his farm were
most likely to be found at this season of the year.

It would be a great pleasure to speak well of Mr. McGregor's residence,
but truth is older than Scotchmen, and the reader looks to us for truth
and not flattery. Though the McGregor seems to have a good farm, his
house is little better than a shanty, a rather cheerless place for the
"woman" to slave away her uneventful life in, and bring up her scantily
clothed and semi-wild flock of children. And yet I suppose there must
be happiness in it,--there always is where there are plenty of children,
and milk enough for them. A white-haired boy who lacked adequate
trousers, small though he was, was brought forward by his mother to
describe a trout he had recently caught, which was nearly as long as
the boy himself. The young Gael's invention was r