We began a difficult march homewards, we were about thirteen miles now from Cauldkail Castle.  Hugh still, from habit, would sit down and take a view through that glass of his.  At last he shut it up, like Wellington at Waterloo, and said, “Maybe ye’ll be having a chance yet, Sir.”  He then began crawling up a slope of heather, I following, like the Prophet’s donkey.  He reached the top, whence he signalled that there was a shot, and passed the rifle to me, cocked this time.  I took it, put my hand down in the heather—­felt something cold and slimy, then something astonishingly sharp and painful, and jumped to my feet with a yell!  I had been bitten by an adder, that was all!  Now, was that my fault?  Hugh picked up the rifle, bowled over the stag, and then, with some consideration, applied ammonia to my finger, and made me swallow all the whiskey we had.

It was a long business, and Dr. MACTAVISH, who was brought from a hamlet about thirty miles away, nearly gave me up.  My arm was about three feet in circumference, and I was very ill indeed.  I have not tried Deer-stalking again; and, as I said, I wish the British Tourist joy of his Access to Mountains.

* * * * *

Early Spring.

[Illustration]

  Once more the North-east wind
    Chills all anew,
  And tips the redden’d nose
    With colder blue;
  Makes blackbirds hoarse as crows,
    And poets too.

  The town with nipping blasts
    How wildly blown;
  Around my hapless head
    Loose tiles are thrown,
  Slates, chimney-pots, and lead
    Of weight unknown.

  My tile and chimney-pot
    Flies through the air. 
  My eyes are full of dust,
    My head is bare,
  A state of things that must
    Soon make me swear!

  When thus in early Spring
    My joys are few,
  I’ll warm myself at home
    With “Mountain Dew,”
  Or fly to Nice, or Rome,
    Or Timbuctoo.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  A studied insult.

Box-Office Keeper at the Imperial Music-Hall (to Farmer Murphy, who is in Town for the Islington Horse Show).  “Box or two stalls, sir?”

Murphy.  “What the DEV’L d’ye Mane?  D’YE take me an’ the missus for A pair O’ PROIZE ’OSSES?  OI’LL have two sates in the DHRESS Circle, and let ’em be as DHRESSY as possible, MOIND!”]

* * * * *

A bird of Prey.

  The Laureate, seeking Love’s last law,
  Finds “Nature red in tooth and claw
    With ravin”; fierce and ruthless. 
  But Woman?  Bard who so should sing
  Of her, the sweet soft-bosomed thing,
    Would he tabooed as truthless.