182 IN A DEER FOREST 



LXXI 



Blessed for ever blessed, even to the third and 

 fourth generation of quill-drivers be the wight who 



in a Deer invented the fountain pen ! I suppose every 

 Forest SC ribe uses one now, just as naturally as 

 every sportsman his breechloader. Yet am I assuredly 

 the first to wield one in this particular spot, for I am 

 lying (September 28, 1895) among acres of boulders on 

 the top of Beinn Eibhinn ' the beautiful hill '3700 

 feet above the sea-level, in Corrour forest. In spite, 

 however, of the facilities of the fountain pen, I shall 

 have to make a fair copy of this before it goes to the 

 printer, for it is blowing three-quarters of a gale, and is 

 very dark. 



It is passing cold withal, and it may be asked why I 

 choose to write within a wet cloud, seeing that a couple 

 of hundred feet below all is sunshine and soft air. From 

 time to time I get glimpses through the gloom of Strath 

 Ossian, bathed in golden light, with Loch Gulbhainn 

 like a clasp of frosted silver, and Gulbhainn Water 

 winding like a chain to join the distant Spean. Well, 

 I am compelled to lie shivering here for an indefinite 

 time to come, for on either hand are deer; one lot 

 easily to be approached, but containing nothing worth 

 a bullet; the other, with several praiseworthy stags, 

 feeding very slowly to ground where it may be possible 

 to get a shot at them. Meanwhile, there is plenty of 

 company. Ptarmigan are purring, growling, and chuck- 

 ling within forty yards of my lair ; a blue hare (not 

 really more blue than Buckingham Palace in a fog) 



