JEPSON is left at home, as he is expecting a couple of local Ministers to tea, but he has told me I’m “bound to come across whole herds of them,” if I only tramp long enough.  Well, I’ve been at it five hours, and I certainly ought to have spotted something by this time.  By Jove, though, what’s that moving in the path ahead of me?  It is! It is a stag! A magnificent fellow—­though he appears to have only one horn.  But, how odd!  I believe he has seen me, and yet doesn’t seem scared!  Yes, he is actually approaching in the most leisurely fashion in the world.  But that isn’t the correct thing.  In deer-stalking, I’m sure you ought to stalk the deer, not the deer stalk you.  And this creature is absolutely coming down on me.  Oh!  I can’t stand this.  I shall have a shot at him.  Bang!  Have fired—­and missed!  And, by Jove, the stag doesn’t seem to mind!  He is coming nearer and nearer.  He actually comes close to where I am kneeling, and with facetious friendliness removes my Tam o’Shanter!  But, hulloah! who is this speaking?  “Ha, and would ye blaze awa wi’ your weepons upon poor old Epaminondas, mon!” It is an aged Highlander who is addressing me, and he has just turned out of a bye-path.  He is fondling the creature’s nose affectionately, and the stag seems to know him.  I remark as much.

“Ha! sure he does,” he replies, “Why there’s nae a body doon the glen but has got a friendly word for puir Old Epaminondas.  You see he’s blind o’ one ‘ee, and he’s lost one o’ his antlers, and he’s a wee bit lame, and all the folk here about treat him kindly, when ye thought to put that bit o’ lead into him just noo, sure he was just oomin’ to ye for a bit o’ oatmeal cake.”

I express my regret for having so nearly shot the “Favourite of the Glen” through inadvertence!  I explain that I came out deerstalking, and did not expect, of course, to come across a perfectly tame and domestic stag.

“A weel, there’s nae mischief done,” continues my interlocutor; “but it’s nae good a stalking Epaminondas, for he’s just a sagacious beastie altogether.”

* * * * *

Here we are at the Lodge.  But, hulloah! what’s this uproar on the lawn?  A herd of deer dashing wildly over everything, flowerbeds and all, and, yes, absolutely five of them bursting into the house, through one of the drawing-room windows, while JEPSON and the two kirk Ministers emerge hurriedly, terrified, from the other.  Crash!  And what’s that?  Why, surely it can’t be—­but yes, I believe it is—­yes, it positively is the Chief’s pickaxe that has flown through the air, and just smashed through the upper panes, scattering the glass in a thousand fragments in all directions!

And thus ends my Stalking for the Present, and (probably) the Future!

* * * * *

[Illustration:  BLACK SYRENS.

This is how the lovely and accomplished Miss B——­ns (of ——­, Portland Place) managed to defray the expenses of their Sea-side Trip, this Autumn, without anybody being any the wiser!