SEPTEMBER 225 



' Bleak mountains and desolate rooks 



Were the MTetched result of our pains, 



The swains greater brutes than their flocks, 



The nymphs as polite as their swains.' 



No nymphs are within many miles, and the only swain at 

 hand is my stalker, in whose esteem I do not rank very 

 high for the moment, seeing that I have just missed a 

 stag. Scarcely the moment, you will say, to provide copy 

 for the printer, but fountain pens run as smoothly in foul 

 weather as in fair, and there is never any time like the pre- 

 sent. Besides, it is only sun-dials that have the privilege 

 of recording none but serene hours. I should like to go 

 home, for I am soaked through and very cold, but that 

 would be at the expense of every shred of self-respect. 



It is about four hours since we descried the beast I 

 have just missed. We were then at the foot of the hill, 

 a couple of thousand feet below this inhospitable summit. 

 The stag, a goodly switch-horn, was half-way up, in com- 

 pany with five-and-twenty other animals of less note. 

 The sun beat into that glen with a vehemence to which 

 we have been strangers all summer ; the wind was very 

 light in shifting flaws ; let it but remain fairly steady and 

 there was an easy approach to the deer up the course of 

 a shallow ravine. We started to climb. The heat was 

 tremendous ; the midges rose in clouds from the steaming 

 heather, and simply tore at every exposed piece of skin ; 

 but we arrived without mishap at the appointed place. 

 The rifle was out of its cover and I was chortling over the 

 easy victory I was on the point of scoring, when I felt a 

 draught of air on my left cheek, blowing thence straight 

 on the deer. 



Surely Nature has shown mercy to man in making him 

 insensible to the odour of his own kind ; to judge from 



P 



