GROUSE-SHOOTING. 333 



a farm, which formed the last outpost of cultivation on 

 the edge of the moors, with a team of the most perfect 

 dogs I have ever seen, all black and white setters. 

 A short walk brought us to the heather. There was 

 only one thing to militate against the success of our 

 day. Three is a bad number. Four is better, for 

 then the party can be divided. On this occasion we 

 refused the proposition that one should shoot in 

 misanthropical solitude, and decided to walk together. 



Before long one of the first couple of dogs loosed 

 began to draw, and finally stood before our young host, 

 his mate steadily backing. Walking up, the lad began 

 the day with a neatly-killed brace, and almost as soon 

 as they were gathered the other dog was pointing. 



This time it was before E and myself, and that 



covey yielded three. The walking was good along 

 this beat, and the birds lay well, but before long we 

 saw we were in for a steep hill. We got to know it 

 well before the day was out. Chainharrow (that was 

 the nearest we got to its Gaelic name) had an awk- 

 ward way of intruding into all the beats on the moor. 

 It was uncommonly steep in parts, and the wind being 

 on the other side, the heat of that sunny climb was 

 considerable. The old cock grouse had an affection 

 for this hill, and had a provoking habit of getting up 

 just as one was thoroughly winded, and thus generally 

 escaping untouched. 



However, all things come to an end, and so did 

 " Chainharrow." The view from the top certainly 

 repaid the climb. Far below, the sea and the 

 Solway Firth lay sparkling in the sun, and on the 



