610 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Nov. 15, 1913. 
Sportsmen’s Show 
AND 
AS A PART OF 
The Third Annual 
Outdoor Trapshooting Tournament 
Travel, Vacation and Sportsmen’s Exhibition 
New Grand Central Palace 
MARCH 5th to 14th, 1914 
Organized and Directed by 
The International Exposition Company of New York 
SPORTSMEN’S SHOW 
Under the Direction of 
Forest and Stream 
Conservation societies, gun clubs and other sportsmen’s organizations are invited 
to co-operate with the management in the exhibition of private collections, etc. 
For detailed information address 
W. J. GALLAGHER, Manager Sportsmen’s Show 
New Grand Central Palace, New York 
THE NARRATIVE OF A SPORTSMAN 
INTER-OCEAN HUNTING TALES 
EDGAR F. RANDOLPH 
A series of hunting reminiscences of rare charm for the sportsman and for the wider circle which deligln- 
in true tales of outdoor life. With none of the high coloring' and exaggeration which give a false note to s 
many hunting stories, Mr. Randolph’s book is never lacking in interest. 
He covers the field of sport with the rifle, east and west, drawing a vivid word picture of life in the open, 
subordinating his own exploits to the mailt inciden s' of outdoor experience, giving much valuable informa¬ 
tion on camp life, hunting and habits of wild game, and continually delighting the reader with the freshn<.~- 
of his viewpoint. 
This book will strike a sympathetic chord in the memory of every big-game hunter of experience, and 
will prove of real v^lue to the novice who is planning an excursion into the wild. 
v^ku 
Clofli. 170 pages. Rielily illustrated. Postpaid, $1.00. 
FOREST AND STREAM PUBLISHING COMPANY, 22 Thames Street. NEW YORK 
A Day in Scotland. 
BY W. R. GILBERT. 
THE MORNING. 
If the morning risetli redde, 
Rise not thou, but keep thy bedde. 
Thus the wisdom of the ancient bard, but 
we were all out early enough to see the morn¬ 
ing rise over the hills toward Momrose very 
red indeed. The night before we had watched 
the west glow from orange to rose, flushing 
the whole line of snow-drifted hills to the north¬ 
east: and as the color faded slowly from the sky 
and the snow, and we walked home between the 
dark pines in an air that smelt of resin and ice, 
hopes for to-morrow rose higher, and higher, 
the glass was going up; Duncan, the keeper, 
a man of few words, had given it as his opinion 
that there was more snow to come, but that 
we might not get it for the present, and with 
that comfortable assurance we began to think 
of the possibilities of really fine weather the 
next day, and with really fine weather equally 
fine shooting—woodcock twisting down the hill¬ 
side. pheasants sailing out over the valley, and, 
above all, caper (capercailzie) rocketing from 
the spruce and stone fir that lined the highest 
ridge of the hill. 
SNOW ON THE HILL. 
These dreams belonged to Sunday evening. 
On Saturday we had had to stop shooting at 
lunch, when the snow came down too thickly 
for the beaters to get through the covert or the 
guns to see what tney were shooting at. We 
had to leave off with the knowledge, half irri- 
rating and half full of hope, that the woods were 
full of 'cock; we had shot eleven in the morning 
before the snow came. All Saturday afternoon 
and evening it snowed. Sunday was a day of 
pure sunshine and radiant light on the hills, and 
he’re we were on Monday morning, staring out 
at a scroll of cumulus and the reddest of red 
dawns. Would the snow keep off? Duncan 
thought it might for a bit, but that there was 
more snow to come. With this comfort we 
went up the hill after breakfast, the moon half 
hidden in drifting gray in front of us, the sun 
veiled in gray behind, and under our feet the 
snow flying in powder. The beaters waited 
for us in line in the wood, half way along the 
side of the hill. 
A RATTLE FROM THE TREETOPS. 
The beats on this hill were long strips of 
spruce and stone fir and larch, intersected by 
narrow paths and rides—so narrow, indeed, that 
a bird swinging forward over the trees would 
only be seen by the gun in time for the hastiest 
snap, which was either followed by a satis¬ 
factory crash in the trees behind, or else by the 
unhappy realization on the part of the gun that 
there was no chance of a second barrel. But 
there is a separate and distinct pleasure in this 
sort of snap shooting. It is no question of 
“fluffy” birds flapping up in front of the gun 
and tumbling down before they have had time 
to get up their proper pace. These wild pheas¬ 
ants get up an astonishing pace in a few yards, 
and come along low over the trees as fast as 
any gun could wish them. And here, for the 
first two or three beats, besides the pheasants, 
the guns got a good deal of shooting at rabbits 
-—not at rabbits quite at their best, perhaps, 
for I think rabbits run uncertainly in snow; they 
