136 



THE ANGLER'S SOUVENIR. 



beauty bursts upon us. Far above our heads tower 

 the overhanging rocks, the foliage of the trees on 

 either side intermingling in the middle. From a 

 height of fifty feet the burn flings itself over the 

 rock in a splendid cascade, and plunges with a 

 sullen roar into the boiling caldron beneath. From 

 thence it slips away between two huge fern-crowned 

 boulders, to be again hurled over a smaller fall, 

 over which a slender plank and handrail serve as a 

 bridge. Seated on a rude seat we watch the foam- 

 ing water, and seem to lose our individuality in its 

 overpowering ego sum. 



Hark ! what is that bell-like note which has 

 sounded more than once down the stream ] It is 

 like the cry of an otter-hound. Ah, there is no 

 mistake about that splendid crash of music. It is 

 a pack of hounds hunting an otter, and every hound 

 is joining in the mellow chorus, which is answered 

 in sharp and quick excitement by the rocks around. 

 A dark object bounds over that rock into the pool 

 above. It is the otter, and a fine fellow he is. 

 With sinewy and cat-like steps it advances towards 

 us, and, seeing us, stands irresolute for a moment, 

 glaring savagely. Hunted to death ! Poor beast ! 

 we cannot help feeling some pity for it. There can 

 be no escape now. A sheer wall of rock before and 

 a baying pack behind. Now the hounds and men 

 appear on the scene, toiling and panting. The 

 otter plunges boldly into the pool below the great 

 fall. The downpour of water catches it, and whirls 



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