86 THE BIRD WATCHER 
round the point. Both in numbers, therefore, and 
impressiveness the AuSMe has been a failure, but the 
morning, with the almost midnight sun, a splendid 
success. 
This was my last day on the island. In the after- 
noon my friends sailed over from Yell, bringing me 
my letters. One was from my sentry-box man, telling 
me the birds were still on the ledges, but advising me 
to come at once, if I wished to find them there—other- 
wise they might be flown. I therefore went back the 
same evening, and next day, which was Sunday, took 
steamer to Uyea Sound, from whence I walked through 
a barren desolation to Balta Sound, getting in, about 
IO p.m., to tea and cakes at one of the most home- 
like, friendly-breathing hostels possible to find either 
in the Shetlands or the rest of the United Kingdom— 
or, indeed, the world, to judge by probabilities—to 
wit, Mrs. Hunter’s establishment, where many a one 
has had cause to say, like myself : 
“Sleep (or rather rest) after toil, port after stormie seas, 
* * * * * does greatly please.” 
Next day I made what purchases I wanted, not 
forgetting a good serviceable porridge-spoon—I had 
used a stick before—and, on Tuesday, drove over to 
Burra Firth, where I was met by the watcher, and 
between us we carried my belongings up the great 
hill—or ness, to give it its Shetland name—to the 
little black sentry-box that I knew so well. The 
“pockmantle” fell to my share, and was the lesser 
