THE ISLAND OF HITTEREN 47 



was unable to pick him up, even with the glass, 

 and doubted his existence until I propped my 

 binocular on a stone, with the stag in the centre of 

 the focus, and so enabled the man to see the exact 

 spot. Some good sportsmen of my acquaintance, 

 accustomed to Scotch stalking, have been occasionally 

 disappointed in Hitteren sport, owing to this difficulty, 

 where luck was against them, of finding good stags 

 in such an up-and-down woodland country. The 

 element of chance naturally plays a large part in 

 woodland sport, as in some other affairs of life. We 

 cannot reduce the pursuit of woodland game to an 

 exact science, and probably would not if we could. 



Some days everything goes right, as on other days 

 all goes wrong. My first shot on Hitteren, with a 

 twelve-bore gun and charge of No. 6 shot, brought 

 down a magnificent golden eagle that, on our coming 

 round a corner of the road, rose within point-blank 



range. 



Never since have I been so near an eagle, although 

 these fine birds abound on the island, where I once 

 saw eight of them, at a distance, sitting on one rock. 

 Walking carelessly through Hitteren woods, I have 

 occasionally and by chance jumped and killed a stag, 

 when a strong wind and the nature of the ground 

 happened to lend itself to the operation, after having, 

 perhaps for days before, stalked favourite glens and 

 corries without the chance of a shot. Twice have good 

 stags been driven into my arms, so to speak, un- 

 wittingly by a comrade without having been seen by 

 him when he and I were stalking neighbouring beats. 



On one of these occasions a friend was stalking 

 along the side of our highest fjeld, a favourite beat. 

 I was stalking a valley on the marsh, the other side of 



