A TRIP TO HIGHLAND LIGHT. 93 



bowl-shape J hollows where twin icebergs had 

 grounded side by side in the great ice age and 

 met their melting death. Upon the narrovy ridge 

 between these " sink-holes " was a grave. Years 

 ago a fisherman died of smallpox, and his body 

 was placed there. A stranger burial spot one 

 seldom sees. A mile further on we passed a 

 lonely poplar tree which marks not a man's 

 grave, but the grave of a home. All trace of 

 the house has gone, but mossgrown roads, a few 

 broken bricks and the sentinel tree bear passing 

 witness to a forgotten fireside ; a spot from which 

 a fisherman went out day by day, and where an 

 anxious heart beat for him in storms and per- 

 haps mourned for him at last when his boat went 

 down in the black waters off Race Point. Not 

 far from this forsaken acre is a sink-hole of un- 

 usual depth. The local name for it is full of 

 color, it is " Hell's Bottom." In spite of this 

 name the pines which line the slopes of the hol- 

 low flourish and are tall, and the pool of sweet 

 water at its centre is a favorite resort for birds, 

 the holy crossbill included. Passing it, we saw 

 above pygmy pines the pallid gleam of the High- 

 land Light, struggling with the glow of sunset. 

 A wide valley seemed to separate us from, the 

 light, and the white tower seemed three hun- 

 dred feet or more in height, but our Pegasus 

 drew us over the valley in five minutes, and the 

 light shrank to its proper size as we drew near. 



