“Oh, would I were a boy again, When life seemed formed of sunny years, And all the heart then knew of pain Was wept away in transient tears.” SAM. F. SMITH. It was autumn--autumn, that is, as we reckon the seasons in the Scottish Highlands. For August was wellnigh at a close. The heather, it is true, still bloomed crimson and red on the mountain sides and the beautiful braes, but the days were now appreciably shorter, and hot though they might be during the day, soon after the sun went down,…
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