26 ON THE GRAMPIAN HILLS. 



wet, windy season, the birds were unusually wild. For 

 hour after hour we traversed the rough heather ground, 

 covey after covey being put up, never rising without 

 finding their numbers diminished, the sport being in 

 the highest degree exciting and enjoyable. Looking 

 down from on high on to the road which leads to 

 Braemar, and on either side to which lies our shooting, I 

 see our fellow-sportsman descending the hill, and we 

 speedily meet at the Queen's Well, where the luncheon 

 is unpacked, the wine placed in the cool stream that 

 issues from the cavity in the rock, and rest and refresh- 

 ment are the order of the day. Here we meet with 

 Major Frank Tower a fine shot at a rocketer, going 

 as straight at a bird as he does across country with 

 his nephew, Mr. Egerton Tower, of the 95th Regiment, 

 who bids fair to equal his uncle ; both being guests 

 of Mr. Christopher Tower, who rents the shooting 

 adjoining Khidorach, as far as Braemar. Talking of 

 the morning's sport, Major Tower said that " grouse- 

 shooting is the poetry of sport, and that to see dogs 

 work, as good dogs do, is worth any expenditure of 

 time and trouble to witness." When such an authority 

 expresses so distinct an opinion, I feel I have not 

 overstated my case when speaking of the first-class 

 sport. 



Renovated by rest and refreshment, I determined 

 to quit the pleasant society of my friends for a while 

 and to attempt the ascent of the Cairnwall. Having 

 some knowledge of mountain-climbing, I steadily 

 pursued my way, disturbing as I went covey after 

 covey of grouse, the old cock-birds crying, as I 

 thought, rather derisively, and in hoarse tones, 

 "Caveck, Caveck, Caveck!" as they whirled away 



