and throwing himself down on his hands and
knees, he began crawling slowly towards
the hidden point. Ah, my Grub-street
friends, how little do ye think of the
discomforts of the wilds! The ground was
squashy as a sponge, and full of horrible
orifices where the black rain-water gathered
and grew stagnant. The Wanderer's knees
were soon soaking, and ever and anon he
plunged up to the elbows in a puddle
treacherously covered with green. Be sure
he muttered no blessings. Again and
again he was on the point of rising erect, but
was checked by the reflection that it was
now impossible to mend matters, and that
much might be achieved by pushing on.

He was soon close to the knolls, which,
instead of affording such good cover as he
had anticipated, lay pretty well exposed to
the view of the black gentlemen on the
promontory. It was immediately quite clear
that, to get within shot of all or any of them,
the Wanderer must learn something from
his ancient friend the snake, and do the rest
of the stalking on his stomach.

Did you ever try to perform this feat;
to lie straight down on your face, keep
your whole body and legs stiff, and wriggle
yourself forward with your elbows and
breast, as you have seen the clown in the
pantomime when he has designs on the
pasteboard leg of mutton? If you are fat,
don't attempt it; it is fatiguing if you are
lean. But add to the difficulties of the
feat, the inconveniences of doing it in a
place as wet as a sponge, and thereby
drenching your whole person with the
green water of a damp morass, and you
have some idea of the Wanderer's situation.
Nothing daunted, however, he oozed
through the long grass, brushing the dirt
with the tip of his nose, and glaring through
his spectacles at the prey. The Wanderer
had his reward; the seals, unsuspicious of
danger, remained motionless as stones.

Five were visible—three very large, two
smaller—all seated less than a hundred
yards away. Creeping behind a large rock,
which afforded a tolerable rest for the rifle,
the Wanderer breathed a space, being quite
exhausted with his labour; then, prepared
to fire. He trembled very much, partly with
fatigue, partly with terror lest he might
miss; but getting two in line, and aiming
as steadily as his nerves would allow, he
drew trigger. A sharp crack, and all was
over. The smoke curled up from the muzzle
of the gun, and for a moment he thought
he had missed. But no! All the monsters
had disappeared but one, which was floundering
wildly among the rocks, and making for
the sea. The Wanderer rushed down,
ready to finish the work with the butt-end
of his rifle, but, before he could reach the
spot, the seal had plunged into the sea.
Forgetting in his excitement to load again,
he saw it rise and sink, with, short painful
dives, leaving a trail of blood behind it,
until at last it turned over on its back,
floundered, and sank in the bubbles of its
own dying breath. By the time that
Hamish came round with the punt, no seal was
there; indeed, the rascal Hamish seemed to
receive with a look of incredulity the news
that any seal had even been hit at all. He
rowed over the spot indicated, looking down
for the white gleam of the seal's belly; but
the water was very deep there, and the slain
one was lost beyond all hope of recovery.

That was the seal we slew. We certainly
did not "bag" him, but we nevertheless
accredit ourselves with the glory of his
death; and no taunts of the ill-disposed
shall make us change our opinion.

Having sought in vain for other loungers
on shore, we determined to drift about,
in the hope of getting chance shots from
the boat. The water was full of seals,
and the black heads were still coming and
going in all directions. Now, it was a
fixed and determined superstition of
Hamish Shaw, that the seal, being fond of
music, can often be lured within gunshot
by whistling; and it was a pretty sight,
finely illustrating the pleasures of the
imagination, to see the Wanderer and his
henchman, guns in hand, whistling softly
to attract the attention of some black head
oscillating out of range. Neither being
very musical, their melody did not seem to
have much effect; until suddenly, about
eighty yards away, a grey old fellow popped
his head through the water and stretched out
his neck for a good stare in our direction.
Shaw continued softly whistling, and both
took aim and fired. There was a great
splash in the water, and the seal was gone!

Thus ended, not gloriously, our sport in
the wilds of Uist. None of the great trophies
were won, though keen had been the chase;
but something better had been gained—
the fresh sense of new life. Cold and
exposure, damp and hunger, rain and wind,
daily acted as tonics to exhausted nature;
and the Wanderer, who had medicinally
swallowed enough iron to make a gun-barrel,
and enough strychnia to poison a boarding-school,
was renewed like Æson by the
rough process of nature herself. To the
weary and exhausted; not to the merely