88 MUTTON BIRDS 



fossicking; standing stiff and stark he could 

 even allow the bird to cross his field of vision, 

 but with its startled dash to cover, the old Adam 

 surged in his veins and only the tug of the rope 

 recalled him to duty towards man and 

 forbearance to his fellow beast.* 



Wearied in well-doing, the three of us were 

 standing together, when trodden into the 

 mould, almost buried, soaked, and with its 

 barbules run into points like a girl's wet hair, 

 one small Kiwi feather was espied. Close 

 by, there projected a flange of sound timber 

 clasped by an intricate rootlet growth; 

 it had in one part been slightly frayed and 

 scraped, and was thereabouts barer of red mould 

 and of grit, splashed up by the drops from the 

 boughs above. These were the sole clues, for 

 on either side of this hummock or flange, the trail 

 became at once lost in loose leaves and unstable 

 twigs that would hold no impress. Banjo, how- 

 ever, gave no sign, not even when I manoeuvred 

 him athwart the hole; it was not indeed until I 

 showed him the entrance that he corroborated 



*It is the poacher who can most vividly realise the pleasures 

 of the dog, and had my own past been sinless I should have 

 abhorred poor Banjo's lust for blood. As it was, his tremor of 

 eagerness bound us in brotherhood, and recalled the memories 

 of schoolboy days. It was then, assisted by the gardener, now a very 

 dear old friend, and his dog, "Bruin," who scared the rabbits 

 covertwards, and with a roll or two of strawberry netting, that I 

 used to crouch during dark nights, at a particular sheep gap in 

 the long dry-ston dyke, and project myself on the rabbits, driven 

 from the crops and rushing homewards. The deep joy of each 

 seizure, the pounce in the black darkness, the alternations of hope 

 and fear, the rapid handling of the enmeshed rabbit touches as 

 tender and quick as those of love itself are vivid still, and must 

 be as near an approach, as mortal man can attain, to the ecstasy 

 enjoyed by a sporting dog in mouthing his game. If, haply, reincar- 

 nation be a truth, I hope to return a boy, die before I reach the 

 age of what is called sense, and then, rising as "on stepping stones 

 of my dead self to higher things," re-visit earth as a curly-coated 

 retriever with the run of a wild Argyleshire moor, and a master 

 mad-keen on field sports. 



