94 SHOOTING THE GROUSE 



the breeze blows freshly, and there is no emperor or 

 sultan that may not envy your feelings as you cover 

 the short mile from the little station to the lodge in a 

 useful brown dog-cart with a fast-trotting pony in the 

 shafts. 



A warm welcome from your host, and you are not 

 long in slipping into your shooting things, and ere the 

 clock has struck eleven are bowling along with a cheery 

 party to the moor. As you step on to the heather, 

 and feel the true moorland breeze in your face, your eye 

 is as keen and clear as the lens of a microscope, and 

 crossing the plank bridge over the river you pause to 

 mark in the brown waters flecked with snowy foam the 

 swirl where the big fish rose only yesterday, after the 

 great spate, which has left streamers of sodden hay, 

 dead logs, and leafy twigs clinging to the timbers of 

 the bridge and the overhanging birches at the side, 

 twelve feet above the present placid level of the 

 stream. 



Can there be such a thing as toil or business, as 

 the turmoil of party strife or the grasping greed of 

 gain, in musty chambers, foetid alleys, and paved courts? 

 It would be difficult to believe in their existence as 

 you survey the heavenly prospect before you after 

 climbing somewhat laboriously, it must be confessed 

 the first rounded knoll above the river, and paus- 



