A PTARMIGAN DAY. 227 



I dropped one dead with my first barrel and hit 

 another badly with the second. 



The struck bird again dipped straight down-hill 

 and settled on the lowest shoulder of the moun- 

 tain, where I had the good hap to mark it, while 

 the remaining one, flying high in a contrary direc- 

 tion, was of course given up. Having made out 

 the exact group of rocks where the disabled bird 

 sought shelter, I coupled the dogs and set off 

 down the steep. On the very brink of a crag, 

 and beautifully placed for a sitting chance, I soon 

 perceived a round grey ball. It was, however, so 

 precisely similar to many of the small stones 

 dotted around, that until the breeze ruffled a 

 feather I could not make certain of my game. At 

 once aware that if the bird was able to rise it 

 would dodge over the rocks without giving time 

 even for a snap, I made all safe by a still poking 

 shot. 



By the downward course of the last bagged 

 birds, I again found myself below the rocky 

 steeps of the mountain face, but, being still 

 pretty fresh, was tempted to try for new game 

 on Ben Oss, instead of re-scaling Ben Loy after 



