The Glorious 
Twelfth. 
THE BIRD WORLD. 
(172) 
THe Glorious Twelfth. 
An Ideal Day. 
Sunshine is streaming across the 
room. Fresh breezes rustle in the ivy 
leaves that almost cover the lattice win¬ 
dow. From afar sounds the rushing of 
the burn, and I awake to the joyous re¬ 
collection that I am in Scotland. 
To-day is the Twelfth, and to-day is 
to be spent on the moors. It is much 
to be thankful for, and soon flitting 
across one’s mind are visions of covey 
after covey of grouse, out of which one 
takes an unprecedented toll. A re¬ 
lapse into unconsciousness is only 
stayed by the entrance of early tea. 
Old-fashioned Sportsmen. 
I am in a house where all is more 
than comfortable; where ostentation 
and unnecessary luxury are unknown; 
we are all good sportsmen of the old- 
fashioned sort, sportsmen in the true 
sense of the word, who would always 
prefer a few good sporting shots to the 
fashionable battue. The ladies of the 
party are essentially English, and 
having said this it will be unnecessary 
to say that the requisite elements are 
complete for a delightful house party. 
On arriving downstairs I am not sur¬ 
prised to note that the older men of the 
party have remained true to their canvas 
or leather leggings, while the younger 
generation have evidently spent much 
time in choosing fascinating heather- 
mixture patterns for their stockings. A 
hearty breakfast, in which a thoughtful 
English housekeeper has not omitted to 
provide several Scottish delicacies, 
makes one feel that there is, indeed, 
much to live for. Having come to the 
end of the meal, we are asked if we will 
walk on to the moor or start a little 
later and drive. Some of the ladies 
think that a walk would be pleasant, 
and, naturally, some of the men readily 
agree. Very soon a straggling line of 
sportsmen and ladies is on its way to 
the moor. 
After a half-hour’s walk we arrive at 
a mountain path which is the ren¬ 
dezvous, and there assembled are the 
beaters. A quaint-looking lot they are; 
all sizes, shapes, and ages, as beaters 
always are wherever yon meet them; 
perhaps the Scots are more picturesque 
and more weather-beaten than any 
others, save the Irish. 
A Good Sportsman. 
I notice that my host is giving some 
orders to Macdonald, the head keeper. 
Knowing my friend as I do, I can guess 
what his orders are—he is telling Mac¬ 
donald that Mr. X. is to be put in the 
most likely butts all day. Is this be¬ 
cause Mr. X. is a good shot and be¬ 
cause the host is anxious that he shall 
be enabled to swell the bag? No, it 
is because Mr. X. is a bad shot—one 
whose life admits of but few opportuni¬ 
ties of shooting Grouse, or, indeed, any¬ 
thing else; he has only a short time in 
the Highlands, but our host is deter¬ 
mined that his poorer friend shall have 
the best of everything. This touch of 
gentleness seems to be in keeping with 
the surroundings. But it is time that 
we thought of- the day’s work ahead 
of us. 
The beaters have started on their long 
tramp, the guns are being posted, and 
one’s thoughts turn from everything save 
the events of the moment. Even the 
ladies are almost forgotten, and all eyes 
are scanning the heathery horizon 
whence the first birds will appear. 
Minutes of expectancy fly past, the sun 
beats down, the mournful cry of the 
