Alt-na-blashy.—The aqueous and igneous agencies seem to be combined in these quarters, for since the rain we hear of a great increase of burns. In default of the moors we fall back on the kitchen and the cellar. I need hardly add that dry wines are almost exclusively used by our party, and moist sugar is generally avoided. Dripping, too, is discontinued, and everything that is likely to whet the appetite is at a discount.

Drizzle-arich.—A Frenchman, soaked out of our bothy by the moisture of the weather, was overheard to exclaim "AprÈs moi le dÉluge."

Inverdreary.—Greatly to the indignation of their chief, several of the "Children of the Mist", in this romantic but rainy region, have assumed the garb of the Mackintoshes.

Loch Drunkie.—We have several partners in misery within hail, or life would be fairly washed out of us. We make up parties alternately at our shooting quarters when the weather allows of wading between them. Inebriation, it is to be feared, must be on the increase, for few of us who go out to dinner return without making a wet night of it.

Meantime, the watering-places in our vicinity—in particular the Linns o' Dun-Dreepie—are literally overflowing.

It is asserted that even young horses are growing impatient of the reins.

Our greatest comfort is the weekly budget of dry humour from Mr. Punch.

A Disappointing Host.—Sandy. "A 'm tellt ye hev a new nebbur, Donal'." Donald. "Aye." Sandy. "An' what like is he?" Donald. "Weel, he's a curious laddie. A went to hev a bit talk wi' him th' ither evenin', an' he offered me a glass o' whuskey, d'ye see? Weel, he was poorin' it oot, an' A said to him 'Stop!'—an' he stoppit! That's the soort o' mon he is."