90 SHOOTING THE GROUSE 



the strings of fowl rising seaward, the fainter, longer 

 lines of the estuary, and far off, flecked with little 

 diamond flashes of white in the sun, the great grey 

 sea itself. Lines of black posts, of which you wonder 

 the use and meaning, stretch through- the reeds from 

 the shore, as though seedlings from the black timbers 

 of the long low bridge that carries you across the 

 marsh. Little cottages nestling under sycamore and 

 birch come in sight ; the great wreaths of steam from 

 the engine float and fade away over the landscape, and 

 as they whisk across a little village of white houses, 

 brush over the slate roofs, and dance away into the 

 fields beyond, a long wooden platform rattles past 

 you, and the magic word ' Gretna,' in white letters on 

 a blue board, tells that you are fairly over the Border, 

 and fills your mind with thoughts of the comedies and 

 tragedies which many such a glorious morning has 

 witnessed around the blacksmith-parson's cot on the 

 historic green. 



What a contrast ! The whizz of your train, ' speed 

 forty-five miles an hour,' with its living freight of a 

 hundred persons, tearing past the little station, and 

 the swaying, rolling post-chaise, with its steaming 

 horses and sweating postboys, bearing the blushing 

 girl-bride, the gallant bridegroom in laced cocked hat 

 and coat, still in his hand the pistol with which he 



