THE COMRADE OF THE HEATHER 



Let us go, lassie, go, 



To the braes o' Balquither; 

 Where the blaeberries grow, 



'Mang the bonnie blooming heather. 



Tannahill. 



ANY attempt to tell the story of the Heather 

 would fall short of its purpose without some 

 modest reference to the constant companion that 

 sympathetically shares its solitude on the bleak hill- 

 sides ; nor is it urgent to enlighten the reader who has 

 roamed the Scottish Highlands upon the nectarine be- 

 guilement of this alluring sweet-lipped comrade; for 

 what mischievous enchantment dwells within the lus- 

 cious heart of the blaeberry, let the merry gatherers 

 tell those whom Fate has unkindly denied their own 

 lordly rustic festivity ! 



Memory unfolds upon its unfading picture-screen 

 a group of laughing lads and lasses, lustily swinging 

 in sun-browned hands their pails or Scotch "flagons," 

 stachering up the heathery braes in the early autumn 

 forenoon, scanning with eager eyes each Heather bush 

 for those protruding branches of green, leathery leaves 

 under which lie hidden the coveted prizes of their 

 search the juicy blaeberries. Now the picture 

 changes. The sun is disappearing behind the far-off 

 Scottish hills, and along the dusty road is seen trudg- 

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