The Glorious 
Twelfth. 
THE BIRD WORLD. 
( 1 73 ) 
Curlew is heard in the distance, away 
on the loch the sail of a tiny craft can 
be seen. Bang, bang, bang! In a 
moment the surroundings are for¬ 
gotten ; here they come, the lovely 
speckled grouse; on the extreme right 
of the line gun-barrels glint in the sun 
—several birds are falling, and in a 
few seconds the reports of the guns 
again reach me. 
My First Chance . 
Now it is my turn—yes, very nice; I 
am quite pleased with the result of my 
first chance, four birds for eight cart¬ 
ridges; if I keep this going it will be 
50 per cent., and I shall do well; 
others of the party might not be 
satisfied, but I am. 
On and on they come, high shots, 
wide shots, shots that make one think 
that one can never miss again, but three 
barrels and nothing to show for it pull 
me up, and I steady down to the day’s 
work. Mr. X. has missed nearly every¬ 
thing. Now, however, he kills a right 
and left; he will be happy all day, 
supremely happy; he “bucks up,” and 
his performances quite surprise him. 
We have taken a pretty heavy toll of 
the birds, and the pick-up shows that 
thirty-five brace have been accounted 
for; we have all had some real good 
shooting, and there is plenty to talk 
about as we wend our way to the next 
line of butts. Two more drives follow 
before lunch, and the bag steadily 
mounts up. We are all in good spirits, 
and all worldly cares are forgotten. 
Our Mid-day Malt. 
A shooting lunch after a hard morn¬ 
ing’s successful work is a thing to 
dream of, but we proceed about it in 
a manner which shows our hostess (who 
has now joined the party with the rest 
of the ladies) that her hospitality is 
more than appreciated. 
Our pleasant rest among the heather, 
where we are smoking and taking things 
very easily, is soon interrupted, and 
again we start off. A heavy shower 
(says Mr. Corfe in The Daily Record 
and Mail) now descends upon us, 
and a ducking, which at any other 
time might damp our spirits, as well as 
our garments, has no real terrors—it is 
but a passing scud, and as we settle 
down for the next drive the sky clears, 
and again our surroundings become as 
pleasant as before. 
It is seldom that the weather behaves 
exactly as one could wish; but fate has 
ordained that to-day shall not be spoilt 
by anything, and the shower has in 
reality heightened our appreciation of 
our good fortune. 
The Guns Grow Mot. 
Again the Grouse are over us, the 
best drives of the day, and the gun- 
barrels grow hot as the birds tumble in 
all directions; the “ old hand ” of the 
party sits almost unmoved, but his eyes 
are as keen as ever, and three birds out 
of four generally fall to his gun. 
‘ The day finally comes to an end, and 
the grand total amounts to just over 
two hundred brace; it has been a day 
to remember, and there are no grumblers 
as we walk home. 
Some will say that this is a small bag; 
ask a genuine sportsman what he thinks, 
and I have no doubt as to the answer. 
Away on a neighbouring moor the 
guns have been at it much harder than 
we have; they have had more to shoot 
at, more to eat, and possibly more to 
drink. The bill is probably far heavier 
than ours, but have they enjoyed their 
day more than we have ? No; I ven¬ 
ture to say that they have not. To be 
content is at all times a virtue, but in 
sport it is essential—that is, if one is 
to enjoy oneself. 
