LXVII 



ONE of the brightest pages in memory carries the record 

 of a certain solitary ramble on a Sabbath morn- 

 ing along the grassy cliffs which stretch south- 

 ward from Machrihanish, beloved of golfers. Better folks 

 than I betook themselves to kirk or chapel, but it would 

 have taken a sermon far above the average to compensate 

 me had I missed the prospect before me as I sprawled 

 on the fragrant turf of Skerrinagal. Scarcely a breath 

 of air stirred upon the summer sea ; the high sun poured 

 mellow radiance upon the tranquil expanse and lit up 

 the distant bluffs of Gigha. In the green, translucent 

 tide, a hundred feet below me, three huge animals were 

 at play, darting under the surface swift as dace, then 

 rising ' head and tail ' like salmon or porpoises, and anon 

 pursuing each other out of sight in the deep, to reappear 

 next minute in their endless dance. 



They were lesser rorqual whales (Balcenoptera rostrata). 

 I have called them huge animals, and rightly so, com- 

 pared with the average run of creatures one may encoun- 

 ter in a Sunday stroll; but in truth the lesser rorqual 

 is a mere pigmy alongside some of his kin, his maximum 

 stature being about thirty feet. 



This (1905) is the second year in succession which has 

 witnessed the abandonment by the Government of the 



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