SEPTEMBER 233 



with the fry of perch, cruising about in pursuit of micro- 

 scopic prey. Towards afternoon a shooting-party appeared 

 in a large turnip-field fully half a mile away; nearer 

 three-quarters of a mile, if memory serves me. The 

 sport was not brisk ; shots rang out at irregular intervals 

 of two to five minutes, clearly heard in the still air. At 

 every report the little fish darted away from the margin 

 into the deeper water, drawing back into the shallows 

 until the next shot started them off again. There could 

 be no possible mistake ; it was the sound of the guns that 

 disturbed them. 



Next as to marine fishes. At Logan, the imme- 

 morial home of the M'Doualls, formerly Celtic lords 

 of Galloway, there is a curious fish-pond, formed in a 

 circular recess, partly natural, partly artificial, in the 

 sea-cliff. It is screened from the sea by a natural 

 wall of rock, through which a tunnel, protected by a 

 grating, admits the tide to fill a basin about thirty feet 

 in breadth and half as much in depth. This basin 

 is kept stored with sea fish caught on hand lines, 

 and here they are regularly fed for the supply of the 

 table, becoming much firmer in flesh and superior in 

 flavour to those which have to hunt for a living in the 

 open sea. Now, if you approach this pond stealthily, and 

 look over the enclosing wall, you will see nothing but the 

 deep green pool, with no sign of life. But let the attend- 

 ant unlock the door of the enclosure, no sooner does his 

 footfall sound upon the wooden stair leading down to the 

 water-edge than the pool becomes troubled. Great tawny 

 cod rise from the depths, and coal-fish (locally called 

 saithe) dart hither and thither, lashing the surface into 

 spray. They know what to expect, and they get it in 



