To Mountain Tarn 



the low flight from place to place is lost, against 

 a background which takes its living creatures in 

 charge and hides them from an eye aloft. At 

 length the eagle pauses, excitedly. Some defect 

 in the shading has betrayed the quarry. Some 

 imperfect feather has crept in unaware. Some 

 careless touch of a brush not dipped in heather. 

 Nature condones no mistakes, not even her own. 



And we shoot the artist. It is barbarous. 

 Had there been as many silly people, long ago, 

 to kill out nature's agents, the red grouse, as we 

 delight to have it, would never have been evolved. 

 Yet we strive to bring about a condition of things 

 in which it will be no longer needful to have 

 russet hues for hiding. Nor will all the wit of 

 man stay them from fading, or put them back 

 where they were. As a painter without his brush, 

 the moor will show its helplessness in the absence 

 of living agents. From its own palette the heather 

 will not lay on a single hue. Reversion will set 

 in, and charm will go. The true enemy is not 

 the eagle. But it is not all tinting. Something 

 else is in the conception of a bird. 



The falcon seeks game mainly on the wing. 

 She loves the stern chase, the lofty air perch, the 

 swift and fatal stoop. There is reason in shooting 

 the falcon. How mean and unsportsmanlike the 

 reason will appear. She exacts her toll from the 

 moor. Of a covey of grouse, she will have one. 

 Which one ? 



'9 



