308 WINTER IN THE NORTH 



and village scant-o'-graces, somewhat shamefaced, and 

 in the meantime on their best behaviour, but feeling 

 that the occasion brings them temporary absolution ; 

 and herd-boys and " hafflin' callants," and id genus 

 omne. Seldom elsewhere will you see such a gathering 

 of folks of many ages and ranks and creeds and 

 callings, meeting for once on a footing of the most 

 fraternal equality, and indulging in the fullest liberty 

 of joviality, without forgetting good manners and 

 mutual regard. 



From curling to cock-shooting, in the alliterative 

 point of view, is a natural transition. While the 

 curling-ponds in the east and south have been bearing 

 for many days, the fresh water in the milder climate 

 of the west coast is still rippling to each gentle breeze. 

 But while the curling sports are still in full swing, a 

 letter reaches you from Argyllshire. The frost has 

 come at last, and in earnest, and the cocks will be 

 following it in flights. Already their harbingers are 

 scattering about in many a hanging copse and many a 

 corrie on the heather braes. And one fine morning a 

 select party of friends, gaitered and shooting-booted, is 

 sitting down to an early repast in a lonely shooting- 

 lodge on the shores of Loch Fyne. A lonely lodge we 

 say ; and indeed the sole drawback to the spot is the 

 difficulty of finding beaters in that romantic wilderness. 

 However, the old keeper has done his best, and has 

 mustered, by hook or crook, half a dozen of ill- 

 matched mortals, from a leggy, shock-headed Celt, 

 who has turned out in the scantiest of tattered kilts, to 



