On a Grouse Moor in Scotland. 
No sooner is grouse shooting over for the 
season than sportsmen instinctively turn their 
attention to the taking of a moor in the High¬ 
lands of Scotland for the following year. It 
is a duty beset with difficulty and no small 
amount of danger. As the best places are often 
taken by Christmas for the following year, it is 
impossible to foresee what kind of weather may 
prevail during the hatching season. How often 
has the fertility of eggs been destroyed by a 
fall of snow, with frost, in the latter part of 
April and in May—as last season, or have the 
young chicks been killed off by being subjected 
to three or four days of incessant rain? A long 
continued drouth on moors not well supplied 
with water also frequently proves disastrous 
to young grouse. Then, to crown all, there is 
the possibility of disease, which the most ex¬ 
perienced keeper is helpless even to mitigate, 
.Among grouse on every moor there will be 
years of plenty and years of famine. 
These are contingencies which sportsmen 
must make up their minds to face, and which, 
to their credit be it said, they generally meet 
without a murmur. There are, however, ad¬ 
verse circumstances which may and ought to 
be avoided, but which sportsmen who only 
spend the autumn months upon moors cannot 
be expected fully to understand. The destruc¬ 
tion of vermin, for example, is a most important 
factor in determining the size of the bag in 
August. On one occasion, when inspecting a 
first-class moor in Perthshire, accompanied by 
a keeper, we discovered the nest of a hoodie- 
crow, which had escaped his vigilance. Strolling 
round the boundaries of the ground, we found 
the nest in a tree which grew from the side 
of a bank in a deep and rocky burn. It con¬ 
tained five young “corbies,” which were suf¬ 
ficiently fledged to be able to fly from the nest 
on our approach. They were speedily de¬ 
stroyed. Returning to the nest, we found on 
a sloping grassy bank shells of grouse eggs, 
which we estimated, and which the keeper ad¬ 
mitted. would number several hundreds. From 
this one example it must appear manifest that 
to neglect the destruction of vermin on a moor 
is incompatible with good sport in August, and 
that it accounts in no small degree for the 
number of barren birds and for those coveys 
of “cheepers” which are so frequently met with 
,in that month. 
Last season, an American sportsman rented 
a well-known grouse moor in Perthshire, and 
•was greatly disappointed as to the number of 
birds. Accepting a kind invitation to spend a 
few days with him, I arrived at the lodge in 
the evening, as he returned from shooting. 
Having had considerable correspondence with 
him, I had long since read between the lines 
that he was a shrewd man of business, and my 
meeting with him quickly confirmed this. Of about 
middle age, tall, straight as an arrow, and with¬ 
out an ounce of superfluous flesh, I saw before 
me the embodiment of a sportsman. Nor was 
I wrong in my surmise, as the following day 
abundantly proved. I have long been regarded 
as a crack shot, but whether because of advanc¬ 
ing years, failing eyesight, or the splendid din¬ 
ner of the previous night, I was fairly out¬ 
stripped by my host. No sportsman likes to be 
beaten, but the never to be forgotten kindness 
displayed toward me made me feel it almost a 
pleasure to have to play “second fiddle” in kill¬ 
ing driven grouse on this occasion. 
We started for the moor punctually at nine 
o’clock, my host leading the way; and it was 
with great difficulty that the party could keep 
up with him. Perspiring at every pore, we 
reached the butts, and took up our respective 
positions. He must be a very unimpression¬ 
able being, however much experience he may 
have had, who does not feel considerable 
trepidation when he finds himself in a grouse 
butt in full view of half a dozen sportsmen he 
has not previously met, and sees coming to¬ 
ward him a covey of grouse. It is a moment 
of glorious uncertainty, and until I have fired 
a few shots, I never feel sure whether I am in 
good form, and may fairly expect to shoot up 
to®the level of excellence I have attained on 
previous occasions. In the present case I was 
far from being pleased with myself, though I 
contributed a fair share of the bag. Again and 
again, however. I managed to miss, and I fear 
“tailored” not a few. Grouse were not plenti¬ 
ful, and many of them actually declined to be 
driven, flying back over the heads of the driv- 
lers. Still, a good many birds came forward, 
and when any tried to break away at the side 
a flanker would suddenly spring up from among 
the heather and wave his flag, with the result 
that not a few of them flew over the butts. As 
the drivers came in sight, it was interesting to 
note the uniform distance between the men, and 
how in true crescent form they all came for¬ 
ward, till the foremost joined with the flankers. 
Though the bag was not what had been killed 
in previous years, still the sport was most en¬ 
joyable. The birds were in splendid condition, 
plump and fat, feathered to the toes, and the 
red above their eyes bright as vermilion. Hares 
were in immense numbers, and many were 
driven forward to the butts, and of course 
added to the bag. One of the days being a 
short one, it was arranged to shoot what was 
known as the big wood in the afternoon. Here 
a large bag is never expected, but the charm 
of variety gives zest to the sport, for there are 
found red and roe deer, red and blue hares, 
rabbits, black game, pheasants, woodcock, and 
capercailzie. This last is a handsome bird, and 
some of the party had never shot them be¬ 
fore. Like many other birds, the male is more 
on the alert than the female; and the larger 
number of those killed are hens. The cocks, 
being more wide awake, hide in the tall, dark 
trees. 
Besides roe and other game, a considerable 
number of capercailzie were bagged, and one 
fine old cock shot by the tenant was sent to a 
bird stuffer, in order to be set up and exhibited 
in America as a specimen of a “Scotch grouse.” 
Sport in this wood is always enjoyable. There 
is that wildness both in the landscape and in 
the game which constitutes half the charm of 
shooting, with an entire absence of any trace of 
hand-reared pheasants, which detracts at once' 
from the dignity and pleasure of the true 
sportsman. Waiting for the beaters coming on 
to drive the game forward, I admired the 
beauty of the scene. The foliage had assumed 
its autumn tints; the withering bracken, the 
hazel copse, the golden birch, and the rowan 
tree all gave the feeling of quiet and peaceful 
contemplation. Soon, however, the scene 
changed. The beaters were now coming, and 
game was running and flying forward. Caper¬ 
cailzie flew overhead, but at altitudes which 
not unfrequently set my gun at defiance. Still, 
a number fell, sometimes with a thud heard at 
a considerable distance. When the drive was 
over, we wended our way homeward peaceful 
and content. 
After dinner some yarns were indulged in. 
frequently with a humorous hit at the “canny 
Scot.” One was, that a Yankee and a 
“Scottie” were in a room together. The former 
had a hundred-dollar bill in his pocket, and the 
latter had the yellow fever. When they came 
out, Scottie had the hundred-dollar bill and 
the Yankee had the yellow fever. Being a 
“canny Scot” myself, I retorted, and told of a 
shooting lodge in the district which was once 
tenated by a party of Americans. A traveling 
menagerie had lately passed along the road, 
and a large male gorilla which had died had been 
thrown into a ditch by the roadside. A num¬ 
ber of farmers were returning in the evening 
from the Pitlochry market, and, as is frequently 
the case with Highland farmers on such oc¬ 
casions. they were somewhat hilarious. Dis¬ 
covering the body, and being naturally super¬ 
stitious, they lowered their voices in presence 
of the dead. At last one of them, bolder than 
the others, examined the body, and said; “He 
is too fine a man for a Mackenzie, he is over 
hairy for a Macdonald, and he is no red enough 
for a MacTavish. Rory, will you run up to the 
lodge and see if any of the visitors are missing!” 
While grouse-driving the following day, wait¬ 
ing patiently for the grouse to come forward, 
and gazing meanwhile at the mist-capped moun¬ 
tain on the opposite side of the corrie, the 
loud roar of a stag reached my ears. Strange 
as it may appear, neither the tenant of the 
shooting nor any of his friends cared for a shot 
at a stag, and though there were numbers on 
the ground they were left entirely unmolested. 
For many sportsman, however, stalking has at¬ 
tractions not found in the prosecution of any 
other sport in this country. This, at least, is 
my feeling. Flaving for many years engaged in 
grouse shooting on some of our finest High¬ 
land moors, and taken part in some of the best 
partridge and cover shooting in the southern 
counties, I am free to confess that deer stalk¬ 
ing'—from a sportsman’s and naturalist’s point 
of view—is my favorite sport. It therefore 
