The sun has set on our last Ascension Sunday; but a day or two yet remain for us to scramble among the clinker, and we have determined on a visit to the “Devil's Riding School.”

When, from Green Mountain, we had looked down upon all the little craters that are scattered over the plains, we had longed to get to them, and this was our first opportunity. At four o'clock on Monday morning we were astir, and, having well broken our fast, were ready within an hour to set out crater-climbing.

Dear old Jimmy Chivas was patiently waiting for me, tied to the verandah gate; Rover, and Brackley's little terrier, Captain, were wild with excitement, and, while we were getting ready, they kept running hither and thither, kicking up dust in all directions, and barking furiously; no doubt to the annoyance of the still slumbering Garrison. Fortunately Jimmy Chivas had seen too much of the world's vanities to care to join in these frolics, and started off sedately, after I had comfortably seated myself on his poor old back, and hung from the pommel of the saddle a leather bag, containing some bottles of ginger-beer and designed to carry a return freight of clinker souvenirs.

The night had been tolerably cool, and, as we turned southwards just before sunrise, we were met by a chilly breeze that was perfectly delightful.