In a certain plain, simple prose narrative in one of our old books, where there is not the least effort at fine writing, it is related how, in the noon of a summer day, a little child fell over a cliff into the sea. The mother ran down shrieking expecting he was dashed to pieces: but she found him quite safe “sitting in the trough of the sea”--to quote the lovely words of the old writer--“playing with the waves. For the waves would reach up to him and laugh round him; and he was laughing at the waves, and putting the palm of his hand to the foam of the crest, and he used to lick it like the foam of new milk.” In the Life of St. Columkille it is stated that, while residing in Iona, he wrote a poem in Irish, a tender reminiscence of his beloved native land, in which he expresses himself in this manner:-- ST. COLUMKILLE’S REMEMBRANCE OF ERIN. “How delightful to be on Ben-Edar before embarking on the foam-white sea; how pleasant to row one’s little curragh round it, to look upward at its bare steep border, and to hear the waves dashing against its rocky cliffs. “A grey eye looks back towards Erin; a grey eye full of tears. “While I traverse Alban of the ravens, I think on my little oak grove in Derry. If the tributes and the riches of Alban were mine, from the centre to the uttermost borders, I would prefer to them all one little house in Derry. The reason I love Derry is for its quietness, for its purity, for its crowds of white angels. “How sweet it is to think of Durrow: how delightful would it be to hear the music of the breeze rustling through its groves. “Plentiful is the fruit in the Western Island--beloved Erin of many waterfalls: plentiful her noble groves of oak. Many are her kings and princes; sweet-voiced her clerics; her birds warble joyously in the woods: gentle are her youths; wise her seniors; comely and graceful her women, of spotless virtue; illustrious her men, of noble aspect. “There is a grey eye that fills with tears when it looks back towards Erin. While I stand on the oaken deck of my bark I stretch my vision westwards over the briny sea towards Erin.” Even the place-names scattered over the country--names that remain in hundreds to this day--bear testimony to this pleasing feature of the Irish character: for we have numerous places still called by names with such significations as “delightful wood,” “silvery stream,” “cluster of nuts” (for a hazel wood), “prattling rivulet,” “crystal well,” “the recess of the bird-warbling,” “melodious little hill,” “the fragrant bush-cluster,” and so forth in endless variety.[7] * * * * *