318 PHEASANTS 



Cold withal, as we fully realized this 

 morning in those open butts on the bare 

 hillside above the woods, while we waited 

 long for those few, short minutes with 

 the great packs of grouse, which made 

 such a novel and charming prelude to a 

 day's pheasant shooting. 



A pleasant valley, where Tay and 

 Tummel meet far below us among the 

 beeches and oaks, plough, pasture and 

 stubble of the river's basin. The distant 

 tops gleam white when the grey clouds 

 lift, and even the lower, nearer hills are 

 flecked and streaked with snow. 



Here in the shelter of the great wood 

 it is warm as spring, and though the 

 clouds drive swiftly overhead, there is 

 scarce a movement among the feathery 

 tops of the tall spruces. As right of the 

 line my stand is in a clearing, bounded 

 half a gunshot away by ranks of veteran 

 spruce which conceal the rest of the line 

 of guns from view, and rising to crown 

 the knoll behind, enforce a lofty flight on 

 every pheasant who would pass this way. 



