_Another cheer! Our isle appears—_ _Our biorlinn bears her on the faster!_ _Ho, ro, clansmen!_ _A long strong pull together!_ _Ho, ro, clansmen!_ "Hold hard!" calls Denny-mains; and behold! we are in among a network of channels and small islands lying out here in the calm sea; and the birds are wildly calling and screaming and swooping about our heads, indignant at the approach of strangers. What is our first duty, then, in coming to these unknown islands and straits?—why, surely, to name them in the interests of civilisation. And we do so accordingly. Here—let it be for ever known—is John Smith Bay. There, Thorley’s Food for Cattle Island. Beyond that, on the south, Brown and Poison’s Straits. It is quite true that these islands and bays may have been previously visited; but it was no doubt a long time ago; and the people did not stop to bestow names. The latitude and longitude may be dealt with afterwards; meanwhile the discoverers unanimously resolve that the most beautiful of all the islands shall hereafter, through all time, be known as the Island of Mary Avon. It was on this island that the Laird achieved his memorable capture of a young sea-bird—a huge creature of unknown species that fluttered and scrambled over bush and over scaur, while Denny-mains, quite forgetting his dignity and the heat of the sun, clambered after it over the rocks. And when he got it in his hands, it lay as one dead. He was sorry. He regarded the newly-fledged thing with compassion; and laid it tenderly down on the grass; and came away down again to the shore. But he had scarcely turned his back when the demon bird got on its legs, and—with a succession of shrill and sarcastic "yawps"—was off and away over the higher ledges. No fasting girl had ever shammed so completely as this scarcely-fledged bird.