DECEMBER. 



DECEMBER SPORT IN THE 

 HIGHLANDS. 



By George Lindesay. 



The last leaves of departed autumn have long mingled with the 

 dead fern and undergrowth of the woods and coverts ; and the rod, 

 which has for so long held its own, has been finally laid aside for 

 the gun. Yet it seems but yesterday when, beneath the shadow of 

 the " Hawks' Rock," I killed the last salmon of the season, with 

 wily old Rob, the cleverest fisherman and poacher in all the country 

 side, to gaff it. The pool was in good order, but owing to the 

 number of dead leaves floating down, not a fish would move ; time 

 pressed, I was under a promise to shoot some distance off by noon, 

 and having tried three or four good patterns in vain, was about to 

 give up, when after sundry dives into the recesses of a most ancient 

 volume, Rob fished out an insect of strange aspect. Obedient to 

 the expert's mandate, I proceeded to fish the pool down once more, 

 and at the fifth or sixth throw was fast in a twelve-pounder, which 

 formed no unwelcome addition to our dinner that night, after a hard 

 afternoon's shooting. 



But now the salmon are intent on matters domestic ; they have 

 ceased to interest, but we have plenty to do without them. The 



