give me any information as to shootings, except the shootings of her own corns.

Fifeshire.—The renters of the Fife shootings generally have been seriously considering the feasibility of combining with those of the once well-stocked Drum Moor in Aberdeenshire, to get up something like a band—of hope, that a bag may be made some day. Thus far, the only bags made have been those of the proprietors of the shootings, who have bagged heavy rentals.

Rum.—I call the island a gross-misnomer, as there is nothing to drink in it but whiskey, which, with the adjacent "Egg", may be supposed to have given rise to the neighbouring "Mull"—hot drinks being the natural resource of both natives and visitors in such weather as we've had ever since I crossed the Tweed. I have seen one bird—at least so the gilly says—after six tumblers, but to me it had all the appearance of a brace.

Skye.—Birds wild. Sportsmen, ditto. Sky a gloomy grey—your correspondent and the milk at the hotel at Corrieverrieslushin alike sky-blue.

Cantire.—Can't you? Try tramping the moors for eight hours after a pack of preternaturally old birds that know better than let you get within half a mile of their tails. Then see if you can't tire. I beg your pardon, but if you knew what it was to make jokes under my present circumstances, you'd give it up, or do worse. If I should not turn up shortly, and you hear of an inquest on a young man, in one of Benjamin's heather-mixture suits, with a Henry's central-fire breech-loader, and a roll of new notes in his possession, found hanging wet through, in his braces in some remote Highland shieling—break it gently to the family of

Your Sporting Contributor.

A PIBROCH FOR BREAKFAST.

The Member for Sark writes from the remote Highlands of Scotland, where he has been driving past an interminable series of lochs, to inquire where the keys are kept? He had better apply to the local authorities in the Isle of Man. They have a whole House of Keys. Possibly those the hon. Member is concerned about may be found among them.

ON THE HILLS

Deer Stalker (old hand, and fond of it). "Isn't it exciting? Keep cool!"

    [Jones isn't used to it, and, not having moved for the last half-hour, his excitement has worn off. He's wet through, and sinking fast in the boggy ground, and speechless with cold. So he doesn't answer.

MR. BUGGLE'S FIRST STAG

1) AT THE FIRST SHOT MR BUGGLE'S FIRST STAG LAY PRONE.

2) ELATED WITH SUCCESS MR B. RUSHED UP AND SEATED HIMSELF ASTRIDE HIS VICTIM.

3) BUT ALAS IT WAS ONLY SLIGHTLY STUNNED, AND PROMPTLY ROSE TO THE OCCASION.

4) SO DID MR B.

5) THE LAW OF GRAVITY PROVED TOO STRONG WHEN A LUCKY SHOT FROM THE KEEPER

6) PLACED MATTERS UPON A SATISFACTORY FOOTING ONCE MORE.

MY ONLY SHOT AT A CORMORANT.

Here she comes!

There she goes!

FULL STOP IN THE DAWDLE FROM THE NORTH.

"Here's a go", I said, turning to Sark, after carefully looking round the station to see if we really were back at Oban, having a quarter of an hour ago started (as we supposed) on our journey, already fifteen minutes late.

"Well, if you put it in that way", he said, "I should call it an entire absence of go. I thought it was a peculiarly jolting train. Never passed over so many points in the same time in my life."

"Looks as if we should miss train at Stirling", I remark, anxiously. "If so, we can't get on from Carlisle to Woodside to-night."

"Oh, that'll be all right," said Sark, airy to the last; "we'll make it up as we go along."

Again sort of faint bluish light, which I had come to recognise as a smile, feebly flashed over cadaverous countenance of the stranger in corner seat.

Certainly no hurry in getting off. More whistling, more waving of green flag. Observed that natives who had come to see friends off had quietly waited on platform. Train evidently expected back. Now it had returned they said good-bye over again to friends. Train deliberately steams out of station thirty-five minutes late. Every eight or ten