V. 

 MAY. 



WE are far from having exhausted the treasures of 

 the teeming sands. Another visit to their broad expanse 

 may yield other objects of interest not inferior to those 

 we lately discovered there. Let us, then, seek the 

 shore, where our humble friend the shrimper, with his 

 wading horse, under the guidance of his shrill-voiced 

 little son, still pursues his indefatigable calling. 



Again the keer-drag is drawn up the tawny beach, 

 the bag is untied, and the sparkling, crawling, jumping 

 heap spreads itself over the sand, beyond the limits of 

 the insufficient cloth. 



A little silvery fish wriggles from the mass, and, by a 

 few lateral vibrations, in an instant buries himself in 

 the soft wet sand, all but the upper surface of his head 

 and back. Our attention is drawn towards this object ; 

 but our friend the shrimper shouts rather abruptly a 

 note of warning. " Mind what ye be 'bout ! that 'ere's 

 pison ! He's a sting-bull, he is." Thus armed, we use 



