SEPTEMBER 183 



lobs slowly past and disappears in the mist; two or 

 three golden plover signal to each other in heartbroken 

 notes; and a raven flaps heavily along the hill-brow, 

 coarsely croaking. There is nothing very cheerful 

 except the ptarmigan, and heaven only knows how 

 these jolly birds keep up their spirits. They are very 

 showy just now in silver grey coats and white facings, 

 intermediate between summer and winter plumage. 

 There is no eagle on the hill to-day, or even they would 

 not be so lively. 



It is a marvel how these fine birds make out a living. 

 The hill- top is like a rough sea- beach at low tide, 

 nearly all stones, and between them only a carpet of 

 weather-wan moss, a few crowberry plants, alchemilla, 

 saxifrage, stag's horn, and scattered blades of wiry 

 grass. We are far above the heather line here ; even at 

 midsummer there must be precious little to eat, except 

 the delicious cloudberries, and the finger of winter has 

 seared the vegetation already. Yet the ptarmigan 

 never think of going to fatter fields; they are always 

 plump and contented. How comes it that, although 

 English plains, with all their wealth of seed, produce no 

 game-bird bigger than a partridge (pheasants being an 

 importation), these awful wastes are peopled by fowl so 

 much bigger ? 



But life in high regions is full of interesting puzzles. 

 Wheresoever the carcase is, there the bird called 

 'eagles' in the text will be found gathered together; 

 but what do they when there is no carcase ? Last year 

 a stag was shot one morning on Beinn Bhreac (2971 



