THE GUN AT HOME AND ABROAD 
SCOTTISH DEER STALKING 
There are so many occasions on which everything goes wrong, and 
nothing will go right, that it is always pleasant to remember those 
happy times in our lives when “ there are no flies in the jam.” In 
Scottish deer stalking, we who have to depend on the generosity of our 
wealthier friends for our favourite sport will experience many occasions 
when the wind is wrong and we cannot wait, or are not asked, till 
it is right. When the mists hang for days when we would be on the 
tops, when deer are scarce, or even — ^what is fortunately rare — ^when 
favouritism is practised, and we are not meant to get a good one, 
and when gross mismanagement, through excessive shooting, spoils 
everything for all parties. So the good times, when our host is a sports- 
man, and deer are plentiful, and there are no vexatious conditions to 
worry about, are what we all desire, and what we best like to remember. 
Here is just a week at Braulen in October, 1900, when my host, George 
Henderson, who has given me many good days at the stags, said ‘‘ Go 
and shoot what you like.” That was just like him, but I did not mean to 
shoot even one a day unless I found a good one, though, as events turned 
out, ‘‘ all went merry as a marriage bell.” I recount this week more 
especially as I had the pleasure, on two days, of being my own stalker 
in Scotland for the first time, and that is a joy one seldom experiences in 
the north. 
Deanie Beat, Braulen, October 8, 1900. 
I regret the fact that Campbell, the head stalker, is ill, but that he has 
not appeared to-day has caused me no little pleasure as, for the first time, 
I am trusted to do my own stalking. A ride of a mile or two takes the 
traveller down Glen Strathfarrer to the cottage where dwells Johnny 
Campbell, the gillie, who is to keep me right in case I show any disposition 
to wander on the Struy or into the Strathconan sanctuary — a not wholly 
impossible contingency in one who has little respect for ” marches.” 
There is a tumbling mountain stream that comes roaring out of the hills 
in lovely ‘‘ Bass’s pale ale ” colour at this spot, and along a crooked 
path we ascended for some hundreds of feet before taking our first ‘‘wee 
spy.” It did not last long, as the view of our beat was as yet insufficient, 
but we had time to find two or three small stags on the hill far above, 
and to warn me that we must be careful in showing ourselves after the 
next 500 feet, for sharp little eyes might see us and move something good 
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