to eat a morsel, but without success--not only the odour of the meat but the mode of eating was repulsive to my taste. After the meal the slaughter continued until midnight. At dawn the sun arose in a mass of dangerous-looking red clouds; to the south the murky clouds hung low. The ice began to roll uneasily, and was soon pounding against the sides of the vessel. Dick jumped on deck and viewed the angry aspect of the weather. [Illustration: FIRING AT THE WALRUS ON THE FLOE. _From a Photograph._] [Illustration: SOME OF THE TROPHIES--EIGHTY TUSKS WERE THE RESULT OF THE TRIP. _From a Photograph._] [Illustration: A WALRUS SKULL--THE BRAIN IS LOCATED TWELVE INCHES BACK FROM THE FOREHEAD, AT THE POINT INDICATED BY A CROSS. _From a Photograph._] "We are on the fringe of a south-easter," he exclaimed. "Let's scoot." He set the course for Nome, all sails were bent to the wind, and the engine throbbed eagerly as the little vessel tore onwards with her port scuppers awash. I looked astern, but the scene of our carnage was already fading in the distance. Faintly I heard the wailing monotones of the walrus leaders calling their scattered herds together, and mourning the loss that had so suddenly befallen them. The wind was moaning through the rigging as we flew before the coming storm, and we left the tenants of the ice-fields slowly flitting north. Eighty tusks were the result of our trip, together with a splendid moving picture of those strange animals. We arrived in Snake River just in time to escape the coming storm. Some of the _chechacos_ (newcomers, green-horns) came down to watch us, and gazed in astonishment at the ivory and the few heads which hung over the bow of the boat. "Are them elephants?" one old gentleman whispered to Dick. "Yes," said the skipper, gravely--"elephants of the sea." Then he turned and walked back to the Breakers. And so ended our walrus-hunt. SPORTING STORIES. A further batch of breezy little narratives--exciting, humorous, and curious--detailing the adventures of sportsmen in various parts of the world. IV.--CORKER'S ALLIGATOR. +By Frank E. Verney.+ There were four of us on the bungalow veranda. Behind us, grim and gaunt in the glow of the Southern Cross, rose the Blue Mountains; out ahead, six miles away, twinkled the lights of Kingston Harbour; whilst around us, from the profusion of tropical flowers, jewelled with flitting fireflies, came sweet incense and insects of a painfully inquisitive turn of mind. It was not the charm of the night or the assaults of the mosquitoes that held our attention, however, but the prospect of an alligator-hunt on the morrow, led by the redoubtable Corker,[1] our host, who, under the influence of plentiful potions of "planters' punch" and the presence of two unsophisticated "subs" of the West India Regiment, had been telling us tales of mighty deeds done in obtaining the trophies which now covered his walls.