332 GUN, RIFLE, AND HOUND. 



moor. Some Scotch (especially Highland) moors are 

 singularly waterless, and here, if the weather is at all 

 warm, the setter soon knocks up, while the pointer, 

 with the aid of a little water carried in a bottle, will 

 work on all day. If there is no choice for this reason, 

 I prefer setters. Both have their advocates, and, 

 perhaps, if the matter were gone into, it would be 

 found to be as much a case of sentiment as anything 

 else. It goes without saying that the dogs must 

 have had lots of exercise beforehand, for the heather, 

 especially where burnt, soon finds out tender feet. 



A few years ago it was my good fortune to receive 

 an invitation to shoot on an estate in the Lowlands 

 of Scotland, which I will call Dalekirk. Our host, 

 though hale and hearty, was a little too advanced in 

 years for the moors himself, so our party was reduced 



to three. These were E , a member of the 



household of Queen Victoria who, though suffering 

 from the effects of an old wound in his left arm, 

 managed to make some very pretty shooting with 

 a specially fitted gun our host's youngest son, and 

 myself. 



The first shooting day after my arrival was a 

 perfect day, though, perhaps, rather too hot for shoot- 

 ing, and for scent. The sky was blue, without a 

 cloud, and the sea near the house rippled in with 

 little movement as the three of us went down to the 

 beach for a morning swim. Returning to the house, 

 we despatched such a breakfast as only Scotland can 

 produce, and taking our guns and cartridge-bags made 

 for the hill. We found the keeper waiting for us at 



