In a Scottish Highland Marsh. 
It was a chill morning in early November, 
and the sun, shining through the mist, lit up 
the tops of the mountains powdered with a 
slight coating of snow. It was ideal weather 
for wildfowl, for frost had driven snipe down 
to the valleys, and with the coming of winter 
the widgeon’s whistle once more echoed in the 
lonely marshes of the Scottish Highlands. 
Other species, too, put in their appearance, the 
the valley at daybreak, and he thought they 
settled on a loch at the far end of the marsh. 
Four keepers and gillies joined us, and form¬ 
ing into line, we commenced operations in a 
real “quaker,” a bog which surrounded a tiny 
lakelet fringed with plants and rushes. I was 
on the right, my host next, and two crack shots 
whom I will call A. and B., on the left of the 
line. 
We had scarcely entered the bog when a 
bunch of teal rose in front of my host, who 
shot they rose and circled away toward the left 
of the line, a reahy marvelous shot from A. 
adding another to the bag. It turned out after¬ 
ward that he had slipped in a couple of No. 3 
shot cartridges as he saw them approaching. 
As the fowl were so wild, a short consulta¬ 
tion between our host and the keeper resulted 
in A. and B. being sent to the far end of the 
marsh with a gillie, while we worked round the 
small tarn on the chance of a snipe or duck 
which might have remained during the fusillade. 
UNAPPROACHABLE GEESE. 
From a painting by Archibald Thorburn. 
tufted duck, goldeneye and a few stragglers 
from the great skeins of geese paused awhile 
on their southward journey. 
Four guns all told, we rattled merrily along 
the frost-bound road, our host beguiling the 
way with tales of former days. Stopping at a 
bridge, he threw the reins to the groom and 
we clambered out with guns and ammunition. 
The marsh lay below us, an endless stretch of 
rush-covered meadow, with here and there a 
pike-haunted tarn reposing in their midst. Be¬ 
neath the bridge a rapid stream brawled on¬ 
ward to the sea, and a river watcher who joined 
us as we stood speculating as to the probability 
of the fowl being in, volunteered the welcome 
news that a big lot of widgeon had passed down 
drew first blood with a neat right and left. The 
shots were followed by a whir of wings as ducks 
rose in all directions, the sharp “scaipe” of 
many snipe mingling with the quacking of mal¬ 
lard and teal. A succession of shots, more or 
less successful, was the result, and a loud yelp¬ 
ing indicated that the retriever, who had run in 
to the first bird, was receiving the customary 
punishment for his fault. Incidentally it is 
worth noting that the dog worked to perfection 
during the rest of the day. Ducks were now 
wheeling round in all directions, and, at a signal 
from our host, we crouched in the rushes. A 
whirl of wings rewarded us for our patience, 
and a bunch of widgeon wheeled past, of which, 
however, I only secured a single bird. At the 
My host’s dog, a steady old Sussex spaniel, 
promptly flushed a jack, which he neatly killed, 
and a single snipe, rising in front of me shared 
the same fate. Both were retrieved by the 
spaniel, no easy matter in the thick marsh 
vegetation. A mallard drake, evidently 
wounded, rose heavily on the edge of the tarn, 
and fell into the water to my right barrel. The 
spaniel took the water without the slightest 
hesitation, but the bird was only winged and 
escaped by diving. We failed to discover the 
slightest trace of it again, but the keeper se¬ 
cured it next day. A couple of teal gave me my 
first chance of a right and left, of which I took 
full advantage, but a snipe rising while I was 
reloading got away unscathed. 
