370 A SPRING WEEK IN THE WEST HIGHLANDS. 



curlews serenaded us from the clouds with their pleasing 

 mournful scream. 



When we had picked our steps through this boggy 

 ground, Loch Bah burst upon our view, and the eyrie 

 itself was just discernible upon the birch-tree in the islet. 

 Peter's glass was fixed, and the bird soon distinguished 

 upon the nest. About half a mile from the islet, and close 

 to us, was the shallop, which we were in the act of launch- 

 ing, when a sound, something between a "squeal" and a 

 whistle, rose and died away upon the still solitude. 1 had 

 never heard anything like it before so singularly plaintive. 

 It had something of the modulated whistle of the buzzard 

 or the kite, but far more sweet, soft, and musical, so fitted 

 to the scenery and the place. It seemed to rise in a low 

 cadence from the shore, and then melt into the clear air. 

 "That's the otter," quoth Peter; " I've heerd them say 

 he gi'es a whustle sometimes." It was soon apparent that 

 he had guessed right, for the " whustle" came next time 

 from the loch, and a gentle break, followed by its circles, 

 showed where the otter had popped up its head, after 

 swimming under water from the shore. 



A difficult channel we had to steer through on our way 

 to the islet ; and although we changed our land pilot into a 

 water one, and placed him in the bow to boot, our skiff 

 was frequently bumped, and once nearly lifted clear of the 

 water by the numerous sunk rocks. 



All sitting birds face the wind, to prevent its ruffling 

 their feathers ; so, knowing where the eagle's head would 

 be, we attempted to come in behind her. But when we 



