AN OLD SPORTSMAN. 75 



some snipe. At length we call a halt, and face 

 the Wisp. The rain is not thick, but cold 

 enough to touch the marrow of the bone. 

 The dreary desolate moorside seems to close in 

 upon us ; and already the curlew, who seldom 

 speak until the dusk, are conversing to each 

 other in the dim shadows overhead. We 

 have had such a good day that Mr. Callaghan, 

 who bears my bag, while Sullivan carries Joe's, 

 is indulging in a song. He has a queer ring 

 in his voice a melancholy whine running 

 through a vein of fun, which you may have 

 heard Mr. Boucicault or poor Charles Verner 

 imitate not badly. The words of his ditty are 

 in Gaelic, and do not sound as softly as Italian. 

 A red glint two miles from here a glint 

 that comes and goes like a revolving light at 

 sea that is the Wisp. Uncle Joe and I are 

 both silent. The fact is, we brought no sand- 

 wiches with us, and are both so hungry that 

 we can think of nothing but our dinners. 

 The worst of it is, that a hungry man's 

 stomach seems to delight in tantalizing his 

 imagination, and through it his palate, at such 

 a moment. As I shamble by my uncle's side 



