GROUSE SHOOTING 



perfect semicircle. O'Bronte ! down on your marrow-bones. 

 But there is no need, Hamish, either for hurry or haste. On 

 such ground, and on such a day, the birds will lie as if they were 

 asleep. Hamish, the flask ! not the powder-flask, you dotterel 

 — but the Glenlivet. 'Tis thus we always love to steady our 

 hand for the first shot. It gives a fine feeling to the fore- 

 finger. 



' Ho ! the heads of the old cock and hen, like snakes above 

 the heather — motionless, but with glancing eyes — and prepar- 

 ing for the spring. Whurr — whirr — whirr — bang — bang — 

 tapsilleery — tapsalteery — thud — thud — thud ! Old cock and 

 hen both down, Hamish. No mean omen, no awkward augury, 

 of the day's sport. Now for the orphan family — marked ye 

 them round 



" The swelling instep of the mountain's foot." 



' . . . Up to the time of our grand climacteric we loved a 

 wide range and thought nothing of describing and discussing 

 a circle of ten miles diameter in a day, up to our hips in heather. 

 But for these dozen or twenty past, we have preferred a narrow 

 beat, snugly seated on a shelty, and pad the hoof on the hill 

 no more. Yonder is the kind of gi-ound we love — for why 

 should an old man make a toil of a pleasure ? 'Tis one of the 

 many small coves belonging to Glen Etive and looks down 

 from no very great elevation upon the Loch. Its bottom and 

 side nearly half way up, are green pastures, sheep-nibbled as 

 smooth as a lawn — and a rill, dropping in diamonds from the 

 cliffs at its upper end, betrays itself, where the water is in- 

 visible, by a line of still livelier verdure. An old dilapidated 

 sheepfold is the only building, and seems to make the scene 

 still more solitary. Above the green pastures are the richest 

 beds and bosoms of heather ever bees murmured on — and 

 above them nothing but bare cliffs. A stiff breeze is now 

 blowing into this cove from the sea loch : and we shall slaughter 

 the orphan family at our leisure. 'Tis probable they have 

 dropped — single bird after single bird — or in twos and threes — 



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