96 SHOOTING THE GROUSE 



seventy yards away, a motionless and perfect picture. 

 Three grouse rise, you kill with your first, and, your 

 host courteously waiting to let you deal with your first 

 right and left alone, strike the second hard but under- 

 neath, while he neatly drops the third bird a beautiful 

 long cross shot. 



Exactly sixteen hours from the time you were 

 driving through Bloomsbury you have killed a right 

 and left of Perthshire grouse, on a spot which fifty 

 years ago would have taken eight days to reach, if 

 even in those days there had been anyone to try it. 



The details of your day's sport, so well known in 

 their incidents, we will not follow. After a glorious 

 day, very weary, but, having acquitted yourself well, 

 supremely contented, what more delicious than the 

 long drive home down the glen, the moor darkling 

 on either side, the shadow deepening to blackness 

 as you wind through the big pine wood and are 

 shown against the western sky the capercailzie in 

 their accustomed place on the giant larch that over- 

 hangs the road, or the spot where the greyhen killed 

 herself against the carriage ? Turning out of the 

 wood you come upon all the glory of the yellow 

 moon, just rising over the eastern hill, and glittering in 

 the waters of the loch ; the horses quicken their pace, 

 lights twinkle in the distance, and now as you swing 



