210 AUGUST ON THE MOORS 



of gravel-floored caverns. A rush, a scramble, a 

 shower of spray and i pebbles, and from one of these 

 emerges a mighty ram in mortal panic, scaring, as he 

 tops the banks, a half dozen of the ladies of his family, 

 who have been leisurely picking their morning meal, 

 buried in a bracken-bed over their curling horns. 

 Whir-r-r-r ! Up rises a covey among the bounding 

 feet of the fugitives, the old birds having the advantage 

 of their offspring by a full dozen of seconds. For 

 yourself, you had been bending over the peat-stained 

 stream, filling the leather drinking-cup. You have 

 just time to toss it aside as you snatch at your gun. 

 Fortunately the keeper had been slipping in the 

 cartridges. All the same, in the surprise and agitation, 

 you make a clean miss of the single bird that sweeps 

 round your shoulder from the left miss him with the 

 first barrel at least, for the messengers from your second 

 do overtake him just in time. 



Rather a questionable beginning, but, after all, it was 

 only a bit of bad luck, and the covey was strong on 

 the wing and wonderfully well grown : hard to tell 

 the young birds from the old ones. And while you 

 are yet speaking, there you are again: and this, time 

 with every prospect of a shot in orthodox first-day-of- 

 the-season fashion. Carlo, dropping on that knoll, as 

 if he had been shot, only there is abundance of life in 

 his eye, as he gently turns his head among the heather 

 sprays to make sure you are awake and mean action. 

 Don's stern feathering in a quiver of nervous excite- 

 ment, as he backs upon the very spot where the vision 



