give the third part of his property to any one who would do the same
to himself. The smith thought he would try to do it this time alone.
He went where O’Donnell was, and said to him that he would put hair on
his head for him also, as he had done to his brother O’Neil. Then he
asked that the cauldron be put on, and a good fire below it, and he
took O’Donnell into a room, tied him on a table, then took up an axe,
cut off his head, and threw it, face downwards, into the cauldron. In
a while he took the prong to see if the hair was growing, but instead
of the hair growing, the jaws were nearly falling out. The smith was
almost out of his senses, not knowing what to do, when he heard a voice
behind him saying to him, “You are in a strait.” This was the lad with
the Black Art, he formerly had, returned. He blew at the cauldron
stronger, brought the prong to see how the head was doing, or if the
hair was growing on it. The next time he tried it, it would twine round
his hand. Since it was so long of growing on it, he said, “We will put
an additional fold round my hand.” When he tried it again it would
reach two twists. He took it out of the cauldron and stuck it on the
body. It cried to be quickly let go, when he saw his yellow hair down
on his shoulders. The hair pleased him greatly; it was more abundant
than that of O’Neil, his brother. They got fully what was promised
them, and were going on their way home. The lad who had the Black Art
said, “Had we not better divide the cattle?”
“We will not, we will not,” said the smith, “lift them with you, since
I got clear.”
“Well,” said the other, “if you had said that before, you would not
have gone home empty-handed, or with only one cow,” and with that he
said, “You will take every one of them: I will take none of them.”
The smith went home with that herd, and he did not require to strike
a blow in his smithy, neither did he meet with the one with the Black
Art, ever after.
O’ NEIL, ’S MAR A CHAIDH AM FALT AIR A CHEANN.
Gobhainn bh’ ann roimhe so ann an Eirinn, ’s bha e latha de na
làithean ag obair anns a’ cheàrdaich agus thàinig òganach stigh ’s dà
sheana-bhoirionnach aige. Thuirt e ris a’ ghobhainn, “Bhithinn ann
ad ehomain,” ars’ esan, “na ’n toireadh tu dhomh tacan de ’n bholg
’s de ’n innean.” Thuirt an gobhainn ris gu ’n tugadh. Rug e an sin
air an dà chaillich, chaith e cearcall mu ’m meadhon, ’s chàirich e
’s an teallach iad, ’s shéid e am bolg riu; thug e ’n sin mach iad ’s
rinn e aon bhoirionnach a bu bhreadha ’s a chunnaic sùil duine de ’n
dà chaillich. ’N uair a luidh an gobhainn ’s an oidhche, thuirt e ris
a mhnaoi, “Thàinig fear rathad na ceàrdaich an diugh ’s dà chaillich
aige, ’s dh’ iarr e orm treis de ’n bholg ’s de ’n innean, ’s rinn e
’m boirionnach a bu bhriadha a chunnaic sùil duine riamh air an dà
chaillich. Tha mo mhàthair fhéin ’s do mhàthair fhéin againn ann an so,
’s tha mi ’smaointeachadh gu ’m feuch mi ri aon bhoirionnach ceart a
dheanamh orra bho ’n a chunnaic mi am fear eile ’g a dheanamh.”
“Dean,” ars’ ise, “tha mi làn-toileach.”
Am màireach thug e mach an dà chaillich ’s chuir e ’n cearcall mu ’m
meadhon, ’s thilg e ’s an teallach iad. Cha b’ fhada ach gus an robh
coltach nach bitheadh na cnàimhean fhéin aige dhiùbh. Bha an gobhainn
’n a chàs gun fhios aige ’dé dheanadh e, ach thàinig guth air a
chùlthaobh, “Tha thu ann ad éiginn, a ghobhainn, ach ma dh’ fhaoidte
gu ’n cuir mise ceart thu.” Rug e air a’ bholg ’s théid e na ’s teinne
riu; thug e mach iad a sin ’s chuir e air an innean iad, ’s rinn e
boirionnach a bu bhriadha de ’n dà chaillich. Thuirt e sin ris a’
ghobhainn, “Bha feum agad ormsa an diugh, ach,” ars’ esan, “’s ann a ’s
fearr dhuit mise fhasdadh, ’s cha ’n iarr mi ort ach darna leth de na
bheir mi a mach; ach gu ’m bi so anns a’ chùmhnant, gu ’m bi an treas
trian de m’ thoil fhéin agam.” Dh’ fhasdaidh an gobhainn e.
Aig an àm sin chuir O’ Neil mach fios na ’m faigheadh e fear a
chuireadh falt air, chionn cha robh falt idir air O’ Neil na air O’
Domhnull a bhràthair, gu ’n toireadh e dhoibh a’ cheathramh chuid d’ a
mhaoin; ’s thuirt an gille ris a’ ghobhainn, “’S fhearr dhuinne falbh
’s bargan a dheanamh ri O’ Neil gu ’n cuir sinn falt air;” ’s rinn iad
mar sin. “Abair thusa ris,” thuirt an gille ris a’ ghobhainn, “gu bheil
gille agadsa a chuireas falt air, air son a’ cheathramh chuid d’ a
mhaoin.”
Bha O’ Neil deònach air a shon so, agus dh’ iarr an gille seòmar
fhaotainn dhoibh fhéin, ’s dh’ iarr e coire a chur air, ’s teine math
ris. Rinneadh mar a dh’ iarr e, ’s chaidh O’ Neil a thoirt stigh, ’s
chuir e ’n a shìneadh air bòrd e, ’s rug e air an tuaidh ’s thilg e
dheth an ceann, ’s chuir e ’n comhair na goille anns a’ choire e. ’An
ceann tacain rug e air gramaiche mòr a bh’ aige ’s thog e suas an ceann
leis, ’s bha toiseach fuilt a’ tighinn air. Ann an ceann treis thog e
suas a rithist e leis a’ ghramaiche cheudna, agus an uair so ruigeadh
car m’ a dhòrn de ’n fhalt bhriadha bhuidhe. Thug e sin an togail ud
air, ’s bhuail e air a’ choluinn e. Ghlaodh sin O’ Neil greasad air
’s a leigeil air a chois, ’n uair a chunnaic e ’m falt briadha buidhe
a’ tighinn ’n a shùilean. Rinn e riu mar a gheall e; fhuair iad a
cheathramh chuid d’ a mhaoin.
’N uair bha iad so ’dol dachaidh’s an spréidh aca, thuirt an gille ris
a’ ghobhainn, “Tha mi nis ’dol a dhealachadh ribh, ’s nì sinn dà leth
air an spréidh.” Cha robh an gobhainn toileach air so a thoirt dha, ach
bho ’n a bha e ’n a chùmhnant fhuair e ’n darna leth. Dhealaich iad
so, agus am beothach nach cailleadh an gobhainn an dràsd’ shiubhladh e
rithist, ’s cha robh fhios aige c’ àite an robh e a’ dol, ’s mu ’n d’
ràinig e ’n tigh cha robh aige ach seann mhart nach do chaill e de ’n
spréidh.
’N uair a chunnaic O’ Domhnull am falt a bh’ air a bhràthair, chuir e
mach fios gu ’n toireadh e ’n treas cuid d’ a mhaoin seachad do aon ’s
am bith a chuireadh air fhéin e. Smaointich an gobhainn gu ’m feuchadh
e-fhéin g’ a dheanamh an dràsda gun duine ach e-fhéin. Chaidh e far
an robh O’Domhnull ’s thuirt e ris gu ’n cuireadh e air-san e mar an
ceudna, ’s gur e a chuir air a bhràthair, O’Neil, e, ’s dh’ iarr e ’n
coire ’chur air ’s teine math ris. Thug e O’ Domhnull stigh do sheòmar
’s cheangail e air bòrd e, ’s rug e air an tuaidh, ’s thug e dheth an
ceann ’s thilg e ’an comhair na goille e anns a’ choire. ’An ceann
treis rug e air a’ ghramaiche dh’ fheuchainn an robh falt a’ cinntinn,
ach ’an àite falt a bhi ’cinntinn ’s ann a bha na giallan ’tuiteam as.
Bha an gobhainn ’an impis dol as a chiall, gun fhios aige ’dé dheanadh
e, ’n uair a chualaig e guth air a chùlthaobh ag ràdhainn ris, “Tha thu
ann ad éiginn.” Bha so gille na sgoil-duibhe, a bh’ aige fhéin roimhe,
air tilleadh. Shéid e ris a’ choire na bu teodha, ’s thug e sin nuas
leis an gramaiche a shealltainn ciamar a bha an ceann a’ deanamh, ’s
bha am falt a’ cinntinn. An ath-uair a dh’ fheuch e e, ruigeadh car
mu ’dhòrn dheth. “Bho ’n a bha e co fada gun chinntinn,” ars’ esan,
“cuiridh sinn car a bharrachd mu ’m dhòrn;” ’s ’n uair a dh’ fheuch
e rithist e, ruigeadh e ’n dà char. Thog e as a’ choire e, ’s bhuail
e air a’ choluinn e; ’s ghlaodh e ’ghrad-fhuasgladh, ’s e ’faicinn
’fhalt buidhe sìos air a ghualainn. Chòrd am falt ris fior mhaith, bha
barrachd fuilt air ’s a bh’ air O’ Neil a bhràthair. Fhuair iadsan
’cheart ni a chaidh ghealltainn doibh, ’s bha iad ’dol dachaidh air an
rathad. Thuirt gille na sgoil-duibhe, “Nach fheàrr dhuinn ar treud a
roinn?” “Cha roinn, cha roinn,” ars’ an gobhainn, “tog leat iad, bho
’n a fhuair mise saor.” “Ma tà,” ars’ esan, “na ’n dubhairt thu sin
roimhe cha deachaidh thu dhachaidh falamh no air aon mhart; agus leis a
sin,” ars’ esan, “bheir thu leat h-uile h-aon diùbh, cha ghabh mise gin
diùbh.”
Chaidh an gobhainn dachaidh leis an spréidh sin, ’s cha do ruig e leas
buille a bhualadh ’an ceàrdaich tuille, ni mò a thachair e-fhéin air
fear na sgoil-duibhe tuille.
BEAST FABLES.
THE WOLF AND THE FOX.
This story, like many others in which the lower animals figure as
characters, is very popular in the Highlands, in fact, Mr. Campbell
of Islay, by whom it is mentioned, could not help falling in with it.
But the version published by him is destitute of several interesting
incidents which form a part of the story. The narration depends always
upon the knowledge and skill of the person who tells it, and this
edition is given because there is to be found in it incidents of much
interest and amusement, not to be found in any other version, such as
the Fox’s oath and standing in front of the fire. The Gaelic is not
given except in the essential expressions, and it is not deemed of much
consequence to give more, as their fluency and number depend upon the
reciter’s knowledge and tact. In these fables the lower animals appear
with the same characteristics as are always assigned to them, and in
this tale the fox appears as not only wily and cunning, but also as the
most unprincipled scoundrel, indifferent to the interests of others,
and also to what is usually of weight with men, the restraint of an
unseen power.
The Fox and Wolf were keeping house together near the shore, and as
might naturally be expected, were very poor and at times hard up for
food. At first the fox kept himself in good condition, and was not so
voracious as the wolf. After a heavy storm in winter time the two went
along the shore to see what the sea had cast up. This is still done by
poor people in the islands, and in those places where wood does not
grow. They are often fortunate enough to find logs and planks of wood.
On the occasion of the wolf and the fox’s journey they were fortunate
enough to find a keg of butter. Probably it had come from Ireland
and been swept or thrown overboard in the storm. It was particularly
welcome to the poor finders, and the rascally fox at once coveted it
for himself. He said to the wolf that, as this was the winter time,
they had not so much need of it, but when the hungry summer (_samhradh
gortach_) would come, it would be doubly welcome; they had better bury
it, and no one would know of its existence but themselves. They dug a
deep hole, buried the keg of butter, and went home with their other
provisions. Some days after that the fox came in, and wearily throwing
himself on a settle, or seat, which formed part of the furniture, he
heaved a deep sigh and said, “Alas! Alas! Woe is me (_Och! Och! fhéin
thall_).”
“Alas! Alas!” said the sympathising wolf, “what is it that troubles
you?”
“Dear me,” said the fox, “they are wanting me out to a christening
(_Och! Och! tha iad ’gam iarraidh mach gu goisteachd_),” still
pretending a weary indifference, and the Gaelic expression is here
noticeable, as, being asked out to a baptism means literally being
asked to be god-father, or gossip at the baptism, a practise observed
in the Highlands, even where the Roman Catholic and Episcopal systems
have disappeared.
“Alas! Alas!” said the wolf, “are you going?”
“Alas! Alas!” said the fox, “I am.” When he came home, the wolf asked
what name they had given the child. “A queer enough name,” said the
fox, “_Blaiseam_,” (let me taste).
Some days after that again the same manœuvre was gone through, and when
the fox returned and the wolf asked him the child’s name, he said it
was as queer a name as the former one,--“_Bi ’na mheadhon_,” (be in its
middle). A third time the manœuvre was gone through and the child’s
name was said to be the queerest of all, “_Sgrìob an clàr_,” (scrape
the stave).
At last the “hungry summer” came; and it was such as is well known
even in eastern countries when the stores of the preceding harvest are
exhausted, and the stores of the year’s harvest are not yet ready. The
fox and the wolf went for the keg of butter, but it had disappeared.
The fox being prepared for this emergency began at once to accuse the
wolf of having taken it, “No one knew it was there but our two selves,
and I see the colour of it on your fur.”
The two went away home, the wolf very much cast down, and the fox
persisting in his accusation that the wolf had stolen it. The wolf
solemnly protested that he had never touched it.
“Will you swear then?” the fox said.
According to a Highland proverb, protestations may be loud till they
are solemn oaths (_’S mòr facal gu lùghadh_). The wolf then held up its
paw, and with great solemnity emitted this oath, “If it be that I stole
the butter, and it be, and it be, may disease lie heavy on my grey
belly in the dust, in the dust,” (_Ma ’s mise ghoid an t-ìm, ’s gur mi,
’s gur mi, Galar trom-ghlas air mo bhronnghlas anns an ùir, anns an
ùir_).
“Swear now yourself,” but the fox was so impressed by the dignity and
reverence of the oath, that he tried every means in his power to evade
so solemn an ordeal; but the wolf would take no refusal, and at last
the fox emitted this oath, “If it be I that stole the butter, and it
be, and it be, Whirm, Wheeckam, Whirram, Whycam Whirrim Whew, Whirrim
Whew,” (_Ma’s mise ’ghoid an t-ìm ’s gur a mi, ’s gur a mi, ciream,
cìceam ciream cuaigeam, ciream ciu, ciream ciu_). The student of
language will observe how the Gaelic C corresponds to the English Wh.
This is particularly noticeable here as the difference renders the oath
as ludicrous in the translation as in the original, if not more so.
The wolf said nothing, but the fox, with that persistence which often
accompanies evil-doing, suggested that they should both stand in front
of the fire and whoever began to sweat first would be the guilty party,
as the butter would be oozing out through him. The wolf thinking no
evil, consented, and the fox thought he would get him to stand nearer
to the fire than himself. It so turned out however, that the fox, who
had kept himself in good condition by repeated visits to the keg of
butter, (and they must have been more frequent than the baptisms to
which he said he had been called), was getting uncomfortably warm, and
said, “We are long enough at this work, we had better go out and take a
walk.” When out thus cooling themselves, they passed a smithy door, at
which an old white horse was standing with the point of its hind shoe
resting on the ground. The wolf having gone over to it, but at a safe
distance, and looking intently at the door, said to the fox, “I wish,
as your eyesight is better than mine and you can read better than I
can, that you would come over and read the name written on the horse
shoe.”
The fox came over but could see no writing on the shoe, but flattered
by the wolf’s words, and not liking to confess that his eyesight was
failing, it went closer and the horse lifting its foot knocked its
brains out.
“I see,” said the wolf, “the greatest scholars are not always
the wisest clerks,” (_Cha ’n i an ro-sgoilearachd a ’s
fhearr.--Lit._--Excessive scholarship is not always the best).
[Illustration: THE FOX AND THE WOLF.]
THE FOX AND THE BIRD.
In the foregoing the fox appears true to his character as an
unscrupulous, grasping, wily wretch, and in the following he appears as
over reached by a bird. Considering the character the fox bears, one is
glad when he is paid back in his own coin. The bird in the tale is by
some rendered Kestrel Hawk, and by others Hen Harrier. The story was
heard in Tiree, in which are no trees on which the bird could sit, and
no hawks or foxes to make the story applicable. The lesson which the
fable implies is one that is useful everywhere.
A _Deargan-allt, Eun Fionn_, was dosing by a river side, when a Fox
came and caught it, and was going to devour it. “Oh don’t, don’t,” said
the bird, “and I will lay an egg as big as your head.”
He protested this so loudly, and so solemnly, that the fox loosened
his hold till the bird at last flew up into a tree. Here sitting on a
branch, and safe from further injury, it said to the fox, “I will not
lay an egg as big as your head, for I cannot do it, but I will give
you three pieces of advice, and if you will observe them, they will do
you more good in the future. One, first, “Never believe an unlikely
story from unreliable authority (_Na creid naigheachd mi-choltach fo
urrainn mi-dhealbhach_). Secondly, “Never make a great fuss about a
small matter (_Na dean dearmail mhòr mu rud beag_), and thirdly”--here
the bird seemed to take time, and the fox having his curiosity now
excited listened, though it was with firmly clasped teeth and pangs of
hunger--“Whatever you get a hold of, take a firm hold of it” (_Rud air
an dean thu greim, dean greim gu ro-mhath air_), saying this, the bird
flew away, and the fox, thus neatly sold, was left lamenting.
THE WREN.
In the Fables relating to animals the fox readily takes a lead, and is
characterised as an unscrupulous and unprincipled rascal. Next to him
the wren, which is the smallest (or at least has the name of being so)
of British birds figures, and has got the name not only of being small,
but also of being forward and pert. The first or most prominent of
these fables is that in which the wren appears as contesting with the
eagle the supremacy among birds, and this story may be said to be as
widely extended over the Highlands as the birds themselves. There was
to be a contest which bird should fly highest, and the wren jumped upon
the eagle’s back. When the eagle had soared as high as it could, it
said, “Where are you now, brown wren?” (_C’ àite bheil thu, dhreathan
donn?_). The wren jumped up a little higher and said, “Far, far, above
you” (_Fada fada fos do chionn_). In consequence of this extraordinary
feat the wren has twelve eggs while the eagle has only two.
Natural historians assert that the number of wren’s eggs in one nest
seldom exceed eight, but others have stated that the most number is
twelve or even fourteen. In these tales which have been got together
in the West Highlands, the number is uniformly said to be twelve, but
whether this is actually the case or merely an assumption, there is no
call here for enquiring.
The wren and his twelve sons were threshing corn in a barn, when a fox
entered and claimed one of the workers for his prize. It was agreed,
since he must get some one, that it should be the old wren, if he
himself could point him out from the rest. The thirteen wrens were so
much alike that the fox was puzzled. At last he said, “It is easy to
distinguish the stroke of the old hero himself” (_’S fhurasda buille
an t-sean laoich aithneachadh_). On hearing this, the old wren gave
himself a jauntier air, and said, “there was a day when such was the
case” (_Bha latha dha sin_). After this the fox had no difficulty, for
boasting was always illfated (_bha tubaist air a’ bhòsd riamh_) and he
took his victim without any dispute.
On another occasion the wren and his twelve sons were going to the
peatmoss, when they fell in with a plant of great virtue and high
esteem. The old wren caught hold of the plant by the ears, and was
jerking it this way and that way, hard-binding it, and pulling it, as
if peat-slicing; white was his face and red his cheek, but he failed to
pull the plant from the bare surface of the earth: the plant of virtues
and blessings--(_Bha e ’ga dhudadh null ’s ’ga dhudadh nall, ’ga
chruaidh-cheangal ’s ’ga bhuain-mòine; bu gheal a shnuadh ’s bu dhearg
a ghruaidh, ’s cha tugadh e Meacain o chraicionn loma na talmhain;
Meacan nam buadh ’s nam beannachd_).
The wren called for the assistance of one of his sons, saying, “Over
here one of my sons to help me” (_An so aon eallach mo mhac nall_), and
they caught the plant in the same way, jerking it this way and that
way, hard-binding and peat-slicing with it; white were their faces and
red their cheeks, but they could not with all their ardour, and their
utmost strength pull the plant from the bare surface of the earth:
the plant of virtues and blessings (_’S bha iad ’ga dhudadh null ’s
’ga dhudadh nall, ’ga chruaidh-cheangal ’s ’ga bhuain-mòine; bu gheal
an snuadh ’s bu dearg an gruaidh ach le ’n uile dhichioll ’s le ’n
cruaidh-neart cha tugadh iad am Meacan o chraicionn loma na talmhain:
Meacan nam buadh ’s nam beannachd_).
“Over here with two of my sons to help me” (_An so dà eallach mo mhac
nall_), and the same operation was again performed unsuccessfully, and
in the same way one after another, until the whole twelve sons came to
the assistance of the old wren. Then they grasped it altogether, and
under the severe strain the plant at last yielded, and all the wrens
fell backwards into a peat pond and were drowned.
The old man from whom this story was heard said, that in winter time,
when knitting straw ropes for thatching, he could get all the boys of
the village to come to assist him, and keep him company, and this they
did with cheerfulness on the understanding that the story of “The wren
and his twelve sons” would be illustrated at the end. One after another
of the boys sat on the floor behind him, and he having a hold of the
straw rope was able easily to resist the strain till he choose to let
go, then all the boys fell back and the laughter that ensured was ample
reward for their labour.
The fame of the wren for its forwardness and impudence is also
illustrated by a story current in the south of Scotland, about Robin
Redbreast having fallen sick, and the wren paying him a visit, and
expressing great condolence when, after making his will, Robin
dismissed her, saying, “Gae pack oot at my chamber door, ye cuttie
quean.” In Gaelic the wren is also known by the name of _Dreòllan_,
and _Dreathan-donn_, and the name as applied to human beings means a
weakly, imbecile, trifling person, in whatever he takes in hand to do.
All the other birds in the same manner have their own share of actions
ascribed to them, and the manner in which several of them made a brag
of their own young is amusing--particularly in Gaelic, in which the
call ascribed to them is more capable of imitation, and particularly in
the light of the manner in which the young of those who make the boast
are looked upon.
“Gleeful, gleeful,” said the Gull, “my young is the supreme beauty.”
“Sorry, sorry,” said the Hooded Crow, “but my son is the little Blue
Chick.”
“Croak, croak,” said the Raven, “it is my son that can pick the lambs.”
“Click, click,” said the Eagle, “it is my son that is lord over you.”
(“_Glìtheag, glitheag,” ors an Fhaoilean, “’se mo mhac-sa an Daogheal
Donn._”
“_Gurra, gurra,” thuirt an Fheannag, “’se mo mo mhac-sa an Garrach
Gorm._”
“_Gnog, gnog,” ors am Fitheach, “’s e mo mhac-sa ’chriomas na h-uain._”
“_Glig, glig,” thuirt an Iolaire, “’s e mo mhac-sa ’s tighearna
oirbh._”)
In the Highlands the young gull is called _Sgliùrach_ which is the
regular name for a slatternly young woman. It is seen in the midst of
a storm alighting in the hollows, and restfully gliding to the highest
summits of the waves.
The hooded crow’s fancy for its own young has passed into a proverb,
“The hooded crow thinks its own impertinent blue progeny pretty” (_’S
bòidheach leis an fheannaig a garrach gorm fhein_”).
Of the Raven it is commonly said, that it is so fond of its victim’s
eyes that it will not even give them to its own young. Its supernatural
knowledge of where carrion is to be found amounts almost to instinct,
and is among the vices (_Dubhailcean_) ascribed to the bard.
The eagle can only fly from an elevated situation, from the difficulty
of getting wind under its wings, and in this respect forms a great
contrast to the little wren.
Of other tales in which the lower animals figure, the three following
are noticeable.
I.--THE TWO DEER. The young, confident of its own speed and strength,
remarked:--
“Sleek and yellow is my skin,
And no beast ever planted foot
On hillside that could catch me.”
The old deer, who knew better, answered,
“The young dog black-mouthed
And yellow: the first dog
Of the first litter. Born in March,
And fed on quern meal and goat’s milk,
There never planted foot on hillside
Beast it could not catch.”
(Sleamhuinn ’s buidhe mo bhian,
’S cha do chuir e eang air sliabh
Beathach riamh ’bheireadh orm.”
“An cuilean bus-dubh buidhe,
Ceud chù na saighe
Rugadh anns a’ Mhàrt
’S a bheathaichte air gairbhean
’S air bainne ghabhair
Cha do chuir e eang air sliabh
Beathach riamh nach beireadh e air).
Regarding this description of the deer-hound it deserves notice that
the word _Màrt_, translated March, denotes any busy time of the year,
there being a màrt, or busy season in harvest as well as in spring,
_Màrt Fogharaidh_ as well as in _Màrt Earraich_, and that in the
islands meal made with the Quern (_Bràthuin_), and from brown oats,
which are the kind of oats most common in these islands, is stronger
and more nourishing food than common meal. The merits of goat’s milk
are well known. This description of the best kind of deer-hound is
striking, and was taken down from a reciter in Skye.