SPOET OF BUTE. 143 



first flying as well as running shot was fired with- 

 out their aid. A fine pack rose at my feet, and I 

 killed one, knocking feathers out of another with 

 my second barrel one of the few escapes of the 

 day. First bird in the bag at half-past eleven. 



The red Irishman now settled to a point, beauti- 

 fully backed by the Saxon bitch. A fine chance, 

 and slew my brace. The next pack, found by old 

 Juno, rose sharp, but I got my couple of birds 

 again. The canine, working with spirit and sup- 

 porting each other well, made no mistakes; and 

 although much of the game rose provokingly wild, 

 they procured me some excellent chances, and we 

 met the gillie and relay of dogs with nine brace 

 of fine full-grown birds. 



The Glenmore valley cuts right through the 

 further hills of Bute. Hitherto I had kept to 

 the north end, having parcelled out the southern 

 division for the evening sport. Before crossing 

 to the fresh range, I gave the ridge and sheltered 

 face of the hunted hill a trial with the fresh dogs 

 for broken birds. If a beat for scattered game 

 has been judiciously chosen, and the shooter 

 humours it by a series of circles and detours, 



