80 MY SPORTING HOLIDAYS 



'Do you often have stags missed in this forest, 

 Donald ?' I feebly asked. 



' We've been fairly lucky this season, so far,' was 

 the reply. ' But,' he went on, ' Mr. Blank ' (a recently 

 departed guest) ' missed a good stag last week, sir/ 



' Those were two good chances I had this morning, 

 Donald, I suppose ?' was my next remark, made in 

 the vain hope of its being contradicted. 



' Varra gude indeed, sir/ was the uncompromising 

 reply, and, after a pause, ' The stags were very fair-r 

 beasts.' Then came an attempt at consolation : c Per- 

 haps we'll be doing better after lunch, sir. There's 

 some good ground awa' west that we have to spy.' 



And so another forward move was made. But 

 my cup of disappointment was not yet fully drained. 

 The lesson that was being taught must needs be 

 rubbed in yet more indelibly. We walked a mile 

 or two across an open boggy flat to a convenient hill, 

 whence some good deer-ground could be thoroughly 

 searched with the glass. Again, and as a matter 

 of course, another stag was seen at once, this time 

 a really good one, carrying an obviously heavy head. 

 It was one of those days in which stags kept coming 

 into view with remarkable persistence and regularity. 

 And again everything favoured the stalk. We watched 

 the stag moving quietly over a grassy flat below us, 

 until he lay down among some rocks on a gentle slope 

 of the far hillside. Then, with confident alacrity as 

 to the course to be pursued, Donald, who was one of 

 the best stalkers I have ever known, guided me on 

 a long detour to the farther side of the aforesaid 

 slope, and we commenced the final crawl. I sub- 

 missively followed Donald, until, stretched at full 

 length behind a stone, I quietly raised my head in 



