comes so clear that we have no doubt whatever that we killed both the swans. One lay dead-still in the bay, its wings distended, and its long neck sunk below the surface. The other fluttered a little way out, but we recovered him by means of a retriever. Then the question rises—which retriever was it, for we have had four of them in our day? Was it Neptune, unparalleled among the reeds at the divine season of the flappers? Or was it Grog, who was never known to lose a wounded hare? Or was it Cato, the curly, who could do everything but speak? Or was it Captain, who is at this moment the inheritor of our best affections? We cannot tell. It is impossible for us to say when or where it occurred. Sometimes we think it was in the Highlands, and then we fix upon Loch Sloy. At other times, it seems to us that we slew the swans in Saint Mary’s Loch, just below the Coppercleugh. Occasionally we are inclined to think that we only shot one of them; and, when very much out of spirits, we have seriously asked ourselves, whether we ever saw a wild swan, except stuffed, in a museum. Being in this state of perplexity, our practice is to split the difference of belief, and to maintain, on ordinary occasions, that we have shot one hooper. Of course, after a few tumblers with a sporting friend, we have no hesitation in bringing forward the second bird; but never, in any instance, have we violated our convictions by increasing the number to three. With this example in our mind, we always deal leniently with sportsmen. If a gentleman is so enthusiastic as to go out to Caffraria, Upper Egypt, or the Cordilleras, solely for the purpose of killing rhinoceroses, crocodiles, or condors, why should we doubt the truth of any narrative which he may be pleased to compile? How do you know that he did _not_ shoot fifteen lions in the course of a summer’s evening, or that he did _not_ ride across the Nile on the back of an enormous crocodile. To question his veracity is simply to commit that impertinence which we have seen practised by snobs, who, not content with your statement of the day’s sport, make a point of peering into your pannier, or examining the contents of your game-bag. Such hounds were intended by nature never to rise above the rank of a water-bailiff. They ought to be summarily dealt with, and dismissed to their kennel, with the reverse of a benison on their heads, and perhaps with a hint to their rear.