large extent it has been peopled from that other west coast across the seas. Was it the name “West Coast” that acted like a charm to draw these wanderers from Galway and from Clare?
They brought with them that touch of romance and melancholy that lie behind all their strenuousness, and gay light-heartedness. Here they found a climate soft and moist, but no other likeness, save in the name, to their own west coast.
They came to a forest land of deep shade, and tangled growth, and struggling life:
“Creeper with creeper, bush with bush at strife—
Warring and wrestling for a breathing space.”
A land of silence and mystery, save for the voice of many waters.
As we passed among them, they gave us of their best with cheery welcome. All unconsciously they taught us of their forest craft: to them I owe a debt I can never pay, but I hope they knew and felt that we were not unmindful.
There is a certain sacredness which lays its seal on many a story I was told, and on many a detail of the life on the West Coast. It prevents me writing more of the dwellers there, but to one and all I would offer the thanks I can never say.
And since it is due to those who may read these pages to know the raison d'être of things, I would further add that Tom and the Scorpion were the two horses: that our journeys were made in primitive fashion, carrying a few needfuls on our
