It was a fine solan goose. He was quite dead when we reached him,
for I had shot him under the right wing.
My good fortune excited Robbie to such a degree that he would not
be satisfied without again trying a shot. So we loaded the gun once
more, and about half a mile further up the glen he had the luck to
knock over a small rabbit. This was the extent of our sport.
To climb up this wild and desolate glen was no easy matter, for I
must tell you that St. John's Head, the summit of which we had to
cross before getting back to our boat (for the tide would not allow
of our return by the beach), stood above the sea to a height
considerably over a thousand feet. The goose and our climbing ropes
were also tiring burdens, and we had many times to take rest beside
the stream and quench our thirst in its cool water. Some distance
above the sea the ground became smoother, and broken rocks gave
place to short heather, which was softer for our bare feet.
When at last we reached the top of the Head, and our trouble was
over, we sat down on the breezy front of the hill and looked far
away across the restless water, where the sea line melted into the
blue haze of the Scotch coast. Nearer to us the water itself was
blue, then pale green with bands of purple above beds of weed, and
over all the white waves curled into foaming crests, silent to us
as snow.
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