28 
THE NATURALISTS’ JOURNAL. 
I strike off to the right now, and a short distance ahead I 
see the bog where I expect to begin operations. As I enter 
the bog a snipe gets up and flies away northwards in his usual 
awkward zigzag manner. And now business begins in earnest, 
as I stoop down to pick up a shell which lies on the damp moss 
before me. It is a specimen of Lymnea palustvis , and I feel 
greatly encouraged by the find, as it is the first I have picked 
up in this district, although I have searched it in the most 
assiduous and careful manner. Down I go amongst the 
rushes, bogbean, sundew, butterwort and numerous other 
plants which constitute this veritable marsh garden. I search 
diligently for a few more specimens of L. palustvis , but I find 
it is far from plentiful. I add Succinea elegans to the list, and 
beautiful specimens they are too. I have found this last- 
named species in several places in this locality, but none so 
fine as these. A little farther on, where water is more plen¬ 
tiful, I find a variety of L. pevegvev in considerable abundance. 
I cannot name this at present, so I must leave it until I reach 
home. I drag my net along the sides of a deepish hole, lift it 
out, and examine the contents. The three species before 
named predominate, but one I can see is entirely different. 
It is L. glabra, and is considered rather rare in Scotland. I 
feel highly gratified and excited by the find. But the excite¬ 
ment abates after spending some time in fruitless search for 
further evidences of this mollusc’s existence here. I try again 
and again, but fail to bring another specimen to light. I pull 
up a tuft of moss and examine it carefully. Here I find Pisi- 
dium voseum in great quantities. I have found this species 
in almost every ditch and marsh in this locality. I am loth 
to leave the place without getting another L. glabra. I dip 
in my net for a final sweep, only to find a few Lymnea pevegvev 
and about half a dozen young newts with only the front legs 
developed. I have spent some time here, so I must be off to 
the Loch and try my luck there. 
On reaching the top of the hill I turn round and feast my 
eyes on the magnificent view that meets my gaze. Down in 
the valley lies the quiet little town of Gatehouse, while the 
sea stretches far away towards the south. It is now almost 
high water, and a couple of vessels in full sail glide slowly out 
of the mouth of the River Fleet, bound in all probability for 
Maryport for a fresh cargo of coal. Westward, on a pro¬ 
minent hill rising directly up from the sea, stands the monu¬ 
ment of the celebrated Charles Rutherford, while below it I 
can see the woods in which he held his services during those 
dreary days of the Covenanters. But I must push on. I 
reach Loch Whinyeon and find it just what I expected. 
There is not a tree visible near it, and the water itself almost 
