192 THE WHISTLER’S DEATH-KNELL. 
denly a sharp clear whistle, that awoke the 
echoes far and near, thoroughly roused me, and 
sent all other thoughts to the rout. As I could 
see nothing, I deemed it expedient to remain 
quiet. Cocking my rifle, I lay on the grass, and 
waited patiently for a repetition of the perform- 
ance. I had not long to tax my patience: again 
came the same sound, then others joined in the 
refrain, until the place, instead of being steeped 
in silence, resembled the gallery of a theatre on 
boxing-night. 
I very soon spied one of the performers, seated 
on the top of a large rock; its position was that 
of a dog when begging. With his forefeet he was 
busy cleaning his whiskers, smoothing his fur, 
and clearly going in for a somewhat elaborate 
toilet: perhaps he was going a wooing, or to a 
morning concert, or for a constitutional, or a 
lounge on the ‘ Marmot’s mile;’ but whatever his 
intentions were, I regret to say they were frus- 
trated. Solely in the cause of science I had to 
stop him; resting my rifle on a flat rock, as I lay 
on the ground, I fired, and the sharp crack, as it 
rang amid the rocks, was the whistler’s death-knell. 
Rapidly reloading, I scampered off to secure my 
prize. Jam afraid there was not much pity felt— 
delight at getting a new animal was uppermost. 
