G BOUSE. 145 



part of a Highland day, and all the wide, lovely landscape 

 before us simmering in the golden glow of the quickly 

 sinking sun. 



But after twenty minutes or so there comes a shout 

 mellowed by distance echoing over the corrie, and soon a 

 devoted band of little brown birds are on the wing coming 

 along all in a bunch. They come nearer, and are just within 

 long range, the cock bird leading and the rest "twinkling " 

 over the heather behind him, when the report of the gun of 

 some impetuous individual, whom we have no time to see, 

 disturbs the stillness, and as the covey breaks up to right 

 and left we all get our chances, thinning their numbers 

 nntil they are out of shot behind us. 



Other drives follow, bringing up the bag to a very respect- 

 able total, considering the lateness of the season, but so much 

 alike in the details of the slaughter of the unsuspicious little 

 brown birds " butchered to make a Roman holiday," that 

 it would be but tedious to narrate them all ; and then we 

 have finished the final beat and troop homeward as the sun 

 sets, not quite so noisy as in the morning, but well pleased 

 with the day's shooting. Nor are our consciences, whatever 

 the tender-hearted may suppose, overburdened with the 

 manner of our sport, for we feel that at this time of year we 

 could not have got near the birds in any other way ; and 

 finally, as our host remarks with a sigh, handing his gun to 

 the keeper, " It is the last bustling they will get until next 

 August." 



