here and there, heaped round with rocks and
stones, and covered inside with deep rank
grass and darnel. Everywhere in the water
jut up pieces of rock—sometimes a whole
drift-reef, like a ribbed wall; and at the
western end are the ruins of a circular tower,
or dune, looking eerie in the dim twilight
of the dull and doleful air.

But now we are afloat, pulling against a
chill, moist wind. Hark! The air, which
was before so still, is broken by unearthly
screams. The inhabitants of the lonely
place are up in arms, yelling us away from
their nests and young. Look at the terns,
pulsing up and down in the air with that
strange spasmodic beat of the wings, curving
the little black head downward, and
uttering some endless creaking croak.
Why, that little fellow, swift as an arrow,
descended almost to my face, as if to peck out
my eyes; I could have struck him with a
staff! Numberless gulls, large and small,
white and dark, all hovering hither and
thither, above our heads, now unite in the
chorus; and two of the large black-backed
species join the flying band, but, unlike the
rest, voice their indignation only at long
intervals. The din is frightful! All the
fiends are loose! Yet numerous as are the
criers in the air, they are only a fraction of
the swarms visible in the loch—flocks of
them sitting moveless on the island shores,
solitary individuals perching on the straggling
rocks where they protrude through
the water, others floating and feeding far
out from land. See yonder monster gull,
perched on a stone; she is huge as an eagle,
with back as black as ebony, breast as
white as snow, and large and glistening eye;
she does not move as we approach, but her
frantic mate hovers above us and tries to
scream us away. Though sorely tempted
to secure so magnificent a bird, we spare
her, partly for the sake of her young, partly
(and more selfishly) for fear of frightening
from the loch other and more precious
game. Note the smaller and darker
plumaged birds, paddling swiftly here and
there close to the rocks; they are young
gulls, recently launched out on the great
water of life.

All this life only deepens the desolation of
the mere. There is a hollow sadness in the
air, which the weird screech of the birds
cannot break.

But the geese: where are they? Not
one is visible as yet, we have not even
heard a quack. Is it indeed to be a wild-goose
chase, but only in the figurative
sense, not literally? No; for Hamish,
with his lynx-like eye, has picked out the
flock far away; he points them out again
and again; but the Wanderer, wipe his
spectacles as he will, can see nothing.
With the telescope, however, he at last
makes them out: a long line upon the
water, numberless heads and necks. What
a swarm! Surely all the geese of Uist
have gathered here this day to discuss
solemn business! It is the very parliament
of geese. Hush! Now, to steal
on them slowly with muffled oars. Some,
the older birds, will rise; but surely out
of all that mighty gathering, a few will
be our own!

As we approach, the geese retreat; they
have spied us already, and wish to give us a
wide berth. Two or three have risen, and
winged right over the hill. Never mind!
push forward. So swiftly do they swim,
that the boat does not gain a foot upon
them; but they cannot pass beyond the
head of the loch up yonder, half a mile
away, and there at least we shall come upon
them. Hark! they are whispering
excitedly together, and the result of the
conference is, that they divide into two great
parties, one making towards a passage
between some islands to the left, the other
keeping its straight course up the mere.
Conscious of some deep-laid scheme to
baulk us, we follow the band that keeps
straight forward—some forty ganders,
geese, and goslings, flying fast for life.
Faster! faster! We are gaining on them,
and by the time they reach that promontory,
we may fire. Now, they are beginning to
scatter, some diving out of sight, and many
rising high on wing to fly round the corner.
They have rounded the promontory, doubtless
into some fatal bay; not a bird is visible.
Yes, one! For a miracle, he is swimming
straight this way. His dusky plumage and
crestless head prove him a juvenile; and
surely nature, when she sent him into
this world of slayers, denied him the due
proportion of goose's brains! Is he mad,
or blind, or does he want to fight? He is
only fifty yards away, and, rising erect in
the loch, flaps the water from his short
wings and gazes about him with total
unconcern. A moment afterward, and he
is a dead gander.

Not a moment is to be lost; quick—
round the promontory—or the flock will
be Heaven knows where! Too late! Not
a bird is to be seen. We are close to the
head of the loch, with a full view of all
comers;—not a solitary feather. They
cannot all be diving at the same time. Yet