Magnificent as this spectacle was, we were not satisfied without climbing to the summit.  As we passed upward, we saw where the rabbits had made their burrows in the elastic peat-like soil close to the very edge of the precipice.  We now found ourselves involved in the cold streams of mist which the strong sea-wind was drifting over us; they were in fact the lower skirts of the clouds.  At times they would clear away and give us a prospect of the green island summits around us, with their bold headlands, the winding straits between, and the black rocks standing out in the sea.  When we arrived at the summit we could hardly stand against the wind, but it was almost more difficult to muster courage to look down that dizzy depth over which the Zetlanders suspend themselves with ropes, in quest of the eggs of the sea-fowl.  My friend captured a young gull on the summit of the Noup.  The bird had risen at his approach, and essayed to fly towards the sea, but the strength of the wind drove him back to the land.  He rose again, but could not sustain a long flight, and coming to the ground again, was caught, after a spirited chase, amidst a wild clamor of of the sea-fowl over our heads.

Not far from the Noup is the Holm, or, as it is sometimes called, the Cradle or Basket, of the Noss.  It is a perpendicular mass of rock, two or three hundred feet high, with a broad flat summit, richly covered with grass, and is separated from the island by a narrow chasm, through which the sea flows.  Two strong ropes are stretched from the main island to the top of the Holm, and on these is slung the cradle or basket, a sort of open box made of deal boards, in which the shepherds pass with their sheep to the top of the Holm.  We found the cradle strongly secured by lock and key to the stakes on the side of the Noss, in order, no doubt, to prevent any person from crossing for his own amusement.

As we descended the smooth pastures of the Noss, we fell in with a herd of ponies, of a size somewhat larger than is common on the islands.  I asked our guide, a lad of fourteen years of age, what was the average price of a sheltie.  His answer deserves to be written in letters of gold—­

“It’s jist as they’re bug an’ smal’.”

From the ferryman, at the strait below, I got more specific information.  They vary in price from three to ten pounds, but the latter sum is only paid for the finest of these animals, in the respects of shape and color.  It is not a little remarkable, that the same causes which, in Shetland, have made the horse the smallest of ponies, have almost equally reduced the size of the cow.  The sheep, also—­a pretty creature, I might call it—­from the fine wool of which the Shetland women knot the thin webs known by the name of Shetland shawls, is much smaller than any breed I have ever seen.  Whether the cause be the perpetual chilliness of the atmosphere, or the insufficiency of nourishment—­for, though the long Zetland winters are temperate, and