LEAVES FROM A GAME BOOK. 67 



into the valley ; rocks of every shape and size ; stones 

 by the myriad, from the tiny ones that run away in 

 thousands from the tread, to the great lumps as big as 

 small cottages, round which a careful way has to be 

 picked. Rocks and stones on every side, some shining 

 and sparkling in the sun, others looking black in shadow, 

 while yet over all prevails a cold, dull, melancholy tint 

 of grey. Deep below lies the sombre valley of dark 

 heather, flecked with white streaks of running burns, 

 and dotted here and there with lochs that look like little 

 ponds. There is no visible sign of life, and apparently 

 nothing growing that could support it ; and yet on these 

 sterile altitudes ptarmigan not only exist, but thrive 

 and hatch their young. If the day be warm, with birds 

 plentiful, it will not be long ere a sharp, harsh ** cr-r-aik " 

 is heard, and again and yet again it sounds ; but if the 

 shooter be a novice, look as hard as he may, nothing 

 living will his eyes detect, and turning to ask " Donald " 

 what is making that queer noise, he will get for answer, 

 " It's just the ptarmigan, sir ; I've been minding them 

 some time. Do ye no see them sitting right in front ? " 



