98 OVER ON THE ISLAND

probably MacDonalds, too. In Scotland, the memory of that infamous massacre will live for ever in the heart of the gorge. But here, in the Glencoe of the New World, the descendants of those doughty clans- men till the fields and fish in the streams quite unmind- ful of the tragedy of a name. What different pictures the two Glencoes present:

A man suddenly shot up into the moon might gaze at the cold remote mountains with much the same chilly awe that he looks at the pass of Glencoe. Here is a landscape without mercy. So far as Glencoe is

concerned the first germ of life has never struggled from the warm slime.

That is the Scottish Glencoe. The Island Glencoe chuckles in its quiet, placid fields, its easy-going life.

It is near lunch time, so we prepare to go through the old routine of finding a place to eat that suits us both. It is very important that the landscape should be congenial, particularly on a picnic—not only congenial to the people themselves, but appropriate for the food. Somehow a river seems to “go” with canned chicken; and the sea with ham and eggs. As for sandwiches-a sheltered wood with or without a brook is just the thing. But we do not have canned chicken . . . or ham and eggs . . . or sandwiches. We have the mere possibilities of a salad. Now what does that require in the shape of scenery?

“The side of the road,” suggested Jean.

“A hill with a commanding View,” I stipulated.

We did not decide on either. Eventually, we compromised on a charming little grove with a brook. I lighted a fire and got the tea ready while Jean made a salad. Then we started to work to