In the Isles seaweed has many local names, but is always mainly divided into Yellow Tails, Dark Tails, and Red Tails (_Feamainn bhuidhe_, _feamainn dubh_, and _feamainn dearg_). The first comprise all the yellowish, light-brown, and olive-brown seaware; the second all the dark-green, and also all green wrack; the third, the red. The common seaware or kelp or tang (_Fucus vesiculosus_) is generally called _propach_, or other variant signifying tangled: and the bladder-wrack, _feamainn bholgainn_ or _builgeach_, ‘baggy-tails.’ I have at times collected many local names of these weeds, and not a few superstitions and legends. Naturally, the most poetic of these are connected with the _Chorda filum_ or Dead Man’s Hair, which has a score of popular names, from ‘corpsy-ropes’ to the occasional Gaelic _gillemu lunn_, which may be rendered ‘the wave’s gillie’ or ‘servant of the wave’: with the drifted gulf-weed, whose sea-grapes are called _uibhean sìthein_, fairy eggs, and are eagerly sought for: and with the _duileasg_, or dulse. Even to this day, in remote parts, an ancient seaweed-rite survives in the propitiatory offerings (now but a pastime of island children) to the Hebridean sea-god Shony at Samhein (Hallowmass). This Shony, whose favours were won by a cup of ale thrown into the sea in the dark of the night, is none other than Poseidon, Neptune, Manan; for he is the Scandinavian sea-god _Sjoni_, viking-brought from Lochlin in the far-off days when the Summer-sailors raided and laid waste the Gaelic Isles. It is singular how rarely seaweed has entered into the nomenclature and symbology of peoples, how seldom it is mentioned in ancient literature. Among our Gaelic clans there is only one (the M’Neil) which has seaware as a badge. Greek art has left us a few seaweed-filleted heads of Gorgons, and to sea-wrack the Latin poets have once or twice made but passing and contemptuous allusion. In the Bible (‘whaur ye’ll find everything frae a bat to a unicorn,’ as an old man said to me once) there is one mention of it only, in Jonah’s words: ‘The depths closed me round about, the weeds were wrapped about my head.’ THE MILKY WAY With the first sustained breath of frost the beauty of the Galaxy becomes the chief glory of the nocturnal skies. But in midsummer even what amplitude of space, what infinite depths it reveals, and how mysterious that filmy stardrift blown like a streaming banner from behind the incalculable brows of an unresting Lord of Space, one of those Sons of the Invisible, as an oriental poet has it, whose ceaseless rush through eternity leaves but this thin and often scarce visible dust, ‘delicate as the tost veil of a dancing girl swaying against the wind.’ Perhaps no one of our poets, and poetry ancient and modern and of every country and race is full of allusions to the Galaxy, has more happily imaged it in a single line than Longfellow has done in “Torrent of light and river of the air.”