we can swear they did not rise on the
wing; had they done so, we could not have
failed to perceive them. Two score geese
suddenly invisible, swallowed up in an
instant, without so much as a feather to show
they once were! Hamish Shaw scratches
his head, and the Wanderer feels awed;
both are quite unable to account for the
mystery.

You see, it is their first real Wild Goose
Day, and, being raw sportsmen, actually
accumulating their knowledge by personal
experience, and utterly rejecting the
adventitious instruction of books, they are
unaware that the young wild goose, when sore
beset in the water, has a sly knack of creeping
in to shore, and betaking himself for
the time being to the shelter of the thick
heather or the deep grassy bog-hole. But
now the mystery is clear; for yonder is
the last of the stragglers, running up the
bank as fast as his legs can carry him,
and disappearing among the grass above.
Tallyho! To shore, Schneider, and after
her! Schneider plunges in, reaches the
bank, and disappears in pursuit. Running
the boat swiftly in to shore, we land and
follow with the guns. Half running, half
flying, screaming fiercely, speeds the goose:
so fast that the dog scarcely gains on her:
and making a short sharp turn rushes again
to the water, plunges in, dives, and
reappears out of gunshot. But her
companions: where are they? Gone, like the
mist of the morning. Though we search
every clump of heather, every peat-hole,
every watercourse, and though Schneider,
seeming to smell goose at every step, is as
keen as though she were hunting a rat in
its hole, not a bird do we discover. Can
they have penetrated into some subterranean
cave, and there be quacking in
security? Forty geese vanished away!
By Jupiter, we have been befooled!

Somewhat tired, we rest for a time on
the water-side. The mere is silent again,
untroubled by the screaming birds or the
murderous presence of man. A drift- mist
is passing rapidly against the upper parts
of the mountains yonder, and the crags
look terrific through its sickly smoke, and
the wind is getting higher. Hark! Is
that distant thunder; or is it the crumbling
down of crags among the heights? It is
neither. It is the hollow moan of the
western ocean, beating in on the sands
that lie beyond these desolate flats. One
feels neither very wise nor very grand,
caught by such a Voice in the wilderness—
hunting geese! Had it been a red deer,
now, or an eagle, or even a seal, that we
were pursuing; but a goose, how
harmonise it with the immensities? Of course
it is merely association; for in point of
fact the wild goose is a thoroughly noble
bird, a silence lover, a high soarer, a lover
of the lonely mere and desolate marsh, a
proud haunter of the weedy footprints of
the sea. Still, a goose is a goose, and, in
the presence of ocean, the Wanderer
discovers his likeness to the family.

The wind is really rising. Dark clouds
are driving westward, and the surface
of the mere begins to whiten here and
there with small sharp waves. It looks
like the beginning of a spindrift gale, but
the weather is very deceptive in these
latitudes, and it may mean nothing after all.
It will be better, however, to be making
tracks over the hills.

Up goes the lugsail, and we drive down
the loch with frightful speed. Down with
it. For the water is sown with rocks, and if
we were to touch a stone while going at that
speed, the punt side would be driven into
splinters. We fly fast enough now, without
sail or oar. Ha! yonder are the geese
round that point, all gathered together
again, doubtless conversing excitedly about
their recent terrific adventures. Before
they can scatter much, we have rounded
the point, and are down upon them.
Bang goes Big Benjamin! Bang! bang!
goes the double-barrel. Five fine young
birds are secured, three of them due to
Ben the monster. We have just dragged
them into the boat, when the rain begins
to come down, while the wind is still flogging
the water with pitiless blows.

And so, wet and weary, we draw up the
punt in a sheltered creek, and turn her
over. Hard by, are some rude huts, built
of peat turfs and wood—the summer
abodes, or shelters, of the shepherds who
bring their flocks over here for pasture;
in one of these we leave the oars, mast,
sail, and other articles. Then shouldering
our spoil, three fat geese apiece, we put
our backs to the wind and rain, and dash
along, through bog and over ditch, till we
arrive at the shepherd's hut on the side of
Loch Skifort.

Two wild days of rain and wind had to
pass away ere we could get across to Loch
Phlogibech for the punt. At last, however,
we went over, shot a few more geese, and
brought the punt through a drenching
mist. It only remains to be added that,
with the assistance of Schneider and the
hawk, we ate up every goose we slew, and,