178 FLIGHT OF GROUSE. 



rabbits, timid, big-eyed hares, and stately, pugnacious 

 and gorgecus-coloured pheasants. Beyond Wood- 

 cote lies Saltoun, with coverts surrounding it, gradu- 

 ally rising up the adjoining slopes till they merge in 

 an undefined line into the moorlands beyond. 



Far off is Haddington, dreamy and smoke-wrapped, 

 while further still if the weather be clear can be 

 seen the Isle of May and the Bass Rock, both encir- 

 cled with the waters of the German Ocean, on whose 

 bosom lines of snow-white foam here and there pro- 

 claim the existence of rocks and shoals. 



If it be harvest time in this vicinity, in what- 

 ever airt the eye may turn, is heather, heather, 

 heather, gorgeous in its regal purple colouring, and 

 giving that warmth and tone to country, that 

 causes every poetic fancy of the wayfarer to run 

 riot, and thank God that his lines have been cast in 

 such a lovable place. 



It was towards the end of the grouse shooting season, 

 a few years ago, that I visited Sutra-Mains, with the 

 hope of picking up a few couple of birds to take with 

 me to dark, foggy, smoke-begrimed London. For days 

 the weather had been peculiarly still, but threatening, 

 for black, impenetrable clouds had long been banking 

 up to the north-east. As I left the house I heard the 

 venerable gardener say to himself, '''The Lord be 

 with the poor folks that will be on the sea the night.' 1 

 Ominous although these words were, I at the time 

 took no heed of them. 



My companion was a keeper, sturdy, and big as 

 true rural Lowlanders of these parts ought to be. 

 On gaining our shooting range, we^ found the game 

 wonderfully tame, and in greater variety than I had 

 previously seen them upon the march. Even the 

 curlews appeared to dread taking wing, and thus had 

 their numbers considerably lessened. 



When stooping down to procure some water from 

 a burn, I became conscious of a distant subdued 



