Wanderings of a Naturalist 



as many stags as any man now living, once watched a golden 

 eagle swoop down upon a herd of stags. The alarmed animals 

 thereupon ran across the hillside at top speed, and the eagle, 

 full of his own importance, repeated his tactics on a solitary 

 roe buck. But the latter was made of sterner stuff than his 

 larger connexions, for in a moment he was on his hind legs 

 striking angrily out at the surprised eagle with his fore feet. 



As I reached the big glen Loch Bhradain lay before me 

 with unruffled waters, on which numbers of trout were rising. 

 It was indeed hard to realize that the end of the stalking 

 season was almost here, so calm and mild the air, so green 

 the hills. High above me, so that she appeared almost to 

 touch the clouds, the solitary eagle still soared. After a while 

 she made her way swiftly north, soon disappearing amongst 

 the hills. Many stags were roaring in the corries. The 

 rushing of the hill burns carried clearly across the quiet glen. 

 Through the dusk were seen dimly the forms of the ponies 

 carrying to the lodge the stags shot on another beat of the 

 forest. The next day brought midsummer weather to the 

 hills. From the stalker's point of view the pity was it came 

 so late, but many stags owe their lives to the days of mist 

 and rain which for weeks rendered them invisible and so 

 secure. 



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