48 AN OLD SPORTSMAN. 



inviting spot for a winter residence. As far 

 almost as the eye could reach, nothing was to 

 be seen but a region of bog and heather. The 

 heather stretched away up the mountain and 

 round its base, save where here and there white 

 and green reeds marked the treacherous morass. 

 But Uncle Joe cared not for poetical land- 

 scapes. Glenaugh was a famous spot for game. 

 Many a night, when my uncle and I had our 

 guns brought up to the cosy parlour for in- 

 spection after cleaning by Jack Sullivan many 

 a night have we paused at hearing, between 

 the shrill screams of the wind, the melancholy 

 piping of the plover, or the call of the mallard, 

 the whistle of the teal. The heather gave 

 cover to great quantities of snipe and a fair 

 share of woodcock ; the bogs were literally full 

 of snipe. Uncle Joe and I had the shooting 

 of the whole place to ourselves. Our best 

 month decidedly was December. There were, 

 strange to say, no grouse in the district ; and 

 although the snipe made their appearance in 

 October and November, still it was not until 

 the first touch of frost came that they were in 

 their prime, and in the largest numbers. We 



