'Tis the last learned and highest lesson of Wisdom, Filho, in man's studious obedience to Nature's laws--_to know when to stop in his career_. Pride, Passion, Pleasure, all urge him on; while Prudence, Propriety, Peace, cry halt! halt! halt! That mandate we have timeously obeyed; and having, unblamed we hope, and blameless, carried on the pastimes of youth into manhood, and even through the prime of manhood to the verge of age--on that verge, after some few farewell vagaries up and down the debatable land, we had the resolution to drop our bridle-hand, to unloosen the spurs from our heels, and to dismount from the stateliest and swiftest steed, Filho, that ever wafted mortal man over moor and mountain like a storm-driven cloud. You are sure _we are on_, Hamish? And that he will not run away? Come, come, Surefoot, none of your funking! A better mane for holding on by we could not imagine. Pure Shelty you say, Hamish? From his ears we should have suspected his grandfather of having been at least a Zebra. THE MOORS. FLIGHT SECOND--THE COVES OF CRUACHAN. Comma--semicolon--colon--full-point! All three scent-struck into attitude steady as stones. That is beautiful. Ponto straight as a rod--Piro in a slight curve--and Basta a perfect semicircle. O'Bronte! down on your marrowbones. But there is no need, Hamish, either for hurry or haste. On such ground, and on such a day, the birds will lie as if they were asleep. Hamish, the flask!--not the powder-flask, you dotterel--but the Glenlivet. 'Tis thus we always love to steady our hand for the first shot. It gives a fine feeling to the forefinger. Ha! the heads of the old cock and hen, like snakes, above the heather--motionless, but with glancing eyes--and preparing for the spring. Whirr--whirr--whirr--bang--bang--tapsilleery--tapsalteery--thud-- thud--thud! Old cock and old hen both down, Hamish. No mean omen, no awkward augury, of the day's sport. Now for the orphan family--marked ye them round "The swelling instep of the mountain's foot?" "Faith and she's the teevil's nainsel--that is she--at the shutin'; for may I tine ma mull, and never pree sneeshin' mair, if she haena richt and left murdered fowre o' the creturs!"--"Four!--why, we only covered the old people; but if younkers will cross, 'tis their own fault that they bite the heather."--"They're a' fowre spewin', sir, except ane--and her head's aff--and she's jumpin' about waur nor ony o' them, wi' her bluidy neck. I wuss she mayna tak to her wings again, and owre the knowe. But ca' in that great toozy outlandish dowg, sir, for he's devourin' them--see hoo he's flingin' them, first ane and then anither, outowre his shouther, and keppin' them afore they touch the grun' in his mouth, like a mountebank wi' a shour o' oranges!"--"Hamish, are they bagged?"--"Ou ay."--"Then away to windward, ye sons of bitches--Heavens, how they do their work!"