LIEUT.-COL. DUTHIE ON BIRDS OF THE MOUNTAIN TOPS. 193 
satisfaction. The Ptarmigan are not easy to find, and, when lying 
close, they are indistinguishable from the moss and stones among 
which they crouch. Probably the first sign of their presence is a low 
churring noise, like the sound of a fisherman’s reel, which proceeds 
from an unseen bird sitting perhaps within a few yards of us. When 
disturbed they are seen running before us like a brood of speckled 
fowls; they rise at first out of shot and disappear behind a cornice 
of rock, but, if persistently followed, they may generally be overtaken, 
and, when the covey is broken up, good sport may be obtained, 
especially if a companion is working another face of the hill. 
Sometimes, from their position when shot, they fall a hundred feet 
or more below the shooter, and require time and patience to retrieve. 
A visit to the haunts of Ptarmigan is always refreshing, for it 
brings us face to face with wild nature, and, standing in her presence, 
we learn to know and love her better, as we watch— through the 
medium of her great interpreters, the mountains—all her varied 
expressions : her calm beauty in sunshine, her mystery in clouds, 
and her terrible grandeur in storm. Nowhere is stillness more 
complete, nowhere is storm more impressive, than in the deep 
solitude of the eternal hills. Perfect silence does not exist upon 
this earth, but there are certain days, among the mountains, when 
the nearest approach to it may be felt—days on which the air is so 
quiet and still that one’s ears are strained in vain to catch the 
faintest sound of distant rivulet or rustling grass, and it is a relief to 
shout, if only to hear one’s own voice echoed back from the crags 
across the glen. 
And how glorious is the storm ! In the narrow vale we may, 
perhaps, hear the rumbling of thunder far away, and take no heed, 
for the limited area of sky above is clear and bright, but the piling 
up of heavy clouds is going on unperceived, and, suddenly, before it 
is realised that the sun is darkened, a flash of lightning illuminates 
the hills, and the great organ of the heavens peals out, and rolls its 
sonorous music overhead— 
“Far along, 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, 
Leaps the wild thunder ! not from one lone cloud. 
But every mountain now hath found a tongue,” 
and, before the echoes of the first explosion die away, another, and 
yet another crash is added to the turmoil which rages around us. 
Fortunate we are if we can find shelter under a leaning rock, 
when the rain and hail come pouring down, drenching the hillsides 
and making every rill a. stream, and every stream a river. 
We were fishing in Sutherland during the month of May, and had 
tried many of her beautiful lochs with unsatisfactory results, owing to 
