A WET DAY ON THE HILL 87 



A tramp of two miles puts us in good marching 

 order before reaching the ground we have in view 

 as the scene of the day's operations. As we sit 

 down to spy the face of the opposite hill, one by 

 one we pick up the ruddy coats of recumbent deer, 

 at times almost invisible until lit up by a gleam of 

 sunshine on the passing of a cloud. Then they 

 seem to stand out sharp and clear, and their coats 

 shine bright by comparison with the brown heath 

 amongst which they are lying. We can count 

 them easily, but they are all hinds and small stags, 

 not worth a stalker's attention. 



As we continue our ascent, the rain gets colder, 

 turns to sleet, and finally to snow, until by the time 

 we have reached the summit, nearly 3000 feet 

 above sea level, our jackets and caps are as white 

 as the surrounding rocks. One can scarcely 

 believe it is the middle of September. So stealthy 

 and unobtrusive are our movements that the Grouse 

 hardly perceive us, or, if they do, are unwilling to 

 take wing. A bonnie brood unexpectedly and 

 closely approached, whirr round the shoulder of the 

 hill and disappear in the blinding snow. On the 

 way up we are reminded of the loneliness of the 

 place by the occasional hoarse croak of a Raven, a 

 pair of which share the solitude of the crags with 

 more than one pair of Buzzards. Before the snow 

 fell, and while yet a fitful gleam of sunshine 

 illumined the rocks, three of the latter birds came 

 into view, soaring in circles, and almost deluding 

 us into the belief that they were Eagles, so large 

 did they appear on outspread wings when seen at 



