SPORT AT POLTALLOCH 237 



surroundings, the birds are sure to provide another 

 very enjoyable half-hour's sport. One gun is stationed 

 at the bottom of the rock-garden, the work and gift of 

 William Mitchell, the lifelong friend and, in his latter 

 years, the constant companion of the old Laird, John 

 Malcolm, my father-in-law, and, like him, an ardent 

 collector of drawings and prints by Old Masters, and 

 a generous benefactor to the British Museum. Three 

 years ago, in a green old age, he followed his friend 

 into the silent land, and now, at his expressed wish, 

 he lies in the little burying-ground by St. Columba's 

 Church, hardly a stone's-throw from where we are 

 now standing. 



Another gun is placed in the drying-ground, just 

 at the back of the house, and I and the rest of the 

 party are posted at various marks, about thirty yards 

 apart, just below a great bank of rhododendrons, 

 which slopes upwards to the wood we have just left, 

 where, in June, the beautiful plants provide a feast of 

 colour for those eyes which are fortunate enough to 

 behold them. Many of the rare Himalayan and other 

 varieties blossom vigorously here, in the sheltered 

 situation, peaty soil, and damp warm climate which 

 suits them so well. Soon the pheasants begin to 

 come, " first by twos and threes, and then by swarms," 

 and a goodly number take their last flight. The gun 

 in the drying-ground, Alfred Bonham Carter, creates 

 huge delight in the gallery by dropping one bird upon 

 the roof, and another right through the nursery 

 window, where the invaded nurse claims and receives 

 it as a perquisite. 



I need not describe the rest of the day. The 

 lunch in the saddle-room, full of beautiful sets of 



