no The Confessions of a Poacher. 



now along the lower shoulder of the mountain. 

 The grey dissolves into dawn, the dawn into 

 light, and the first blackcock crows to his grey 

 hen in the hollow. As my head appears above 

 the burn side, the ever-watchful curlews whistle 

 and the plovers scream. A dotterel goes 

 plaintively piping over the stones, and the 

 " cheep, cheep," of the awakening ling-birds 

 rises from every brae. A silent tarn lies shim- 

 mering in a green hollow beneath, and over its 

 marge constantly flit a pair of summer snipe. 

 The bellowing of red deer comes from a 

 neighbouring corrie, and a herd of roe are 

 browsing on the confines of the scrub. The 

 sun mounts the Eastern air, drives the mists 

 away and beyond the lichen patches loved by 

 the ptarmigan and it is day. 



A glorious bird is the red grouse ! Listen 

 to his warning " kok, kok, kok," as he eyes the 

 invader of his moorland haunts. Now that it 

 is day his mate joins him on the " knowe." 

 The sun warms up his rufus plumage, and the 

 crescent-shaped patch of vermilion over the 

 eye glows in the strong light. It is these 



