the place of water. Then dogs were discussed:
the good points of Shako and the laziness of
Shock. I and the Frenchman, equally ignorant
of moorish customs, pricked up our four
ears. Our hearts sunk when our host asked
for the keeper's returns, and read:—

"Gordon's Lowe beat: Earl of Groats,
Colonel Lansend, and Sir Robert Scilly,
killed sixty-three and a half brace and two
hares. Day  windy and wet. Birds very
wild.

"South beat of Glenboggie: Mr. Bookby,
Major Woolwich, and keeper, killed seventy-
two brace, one hare and a snipe. Day wet
and windy. Birds wild."

Methought, what if the south beat of
Glenboggie be invaded to-morrow by
Mr. Croxpound, Monsieur Bois-le-Comte, and keeper;
how will our doings read over the whiskey
toddy?

At nine o'clock the next morning, we all
met about the breakfast table. After breakfast
bustle began. Valets were running about
with belts and gaiters; the earl's old steward
was superintending the package of a luncheon,
and giving out the wine and porter with a
reverent touch upon the bottles, counting
with severe accuracy the bottles of whiskey
allotted for the gillies, and giving out to the
keepers bags of powder and shot. He was
master of the commissariat, and presided
also over the ordnance department, evidently.
Eight or ten ponies stood before the door,
two of them having panniers upon their
backs, for the conveyance of the before-
mentioned stores. The gillies loitered about,
waiting to be told whom they were to serve;
the keepers gathered about the kennel, holding
in leash the noisy and impatient dogs.
Those left in the kennel piteously yelled at
the prospect of being left behind.

Sportsmen enter from the lodge, dressed in
brown suits that suit the colour of the boggy
earth, or moss-coloured and pinkish, in
accordance with a tailor's notion of the heather;
they wear caps and wide-awakes to correspond.
Enter from the lodge M. Bois-le-Comte
in a national sporting coat and waistcoat of
bright sea-green velvet, a yellow handkerchief
with floating ends about his neck—which he
denominates a Belchère Anglais, trowsers
spotless as new driven snow, and patent
leather boots. Enter from the lodge
Mrs. Bookby, escorted by the Earl of Groats. A
Highlander dressed in full costume, and wearing
the Glenronald tartan, leads up a mountain
pony for her use. Mrs. Bookby mounts her
pony. The keeper divides the assembled
sportsmen into three parties, and appears
to be explaining something to each set;
he explains the beat each is to take. He
disposes of the gillies among the sportsmen,
by attaching to each man his Highland
gillie, who will come and go at his bidding
for the day. He hands the guns to the
running fellows who are to load them, and
carry them when gentlemen begin to be tired.

Enter from the Lodge Mr. Bookby, who is
literary, and who has been writing an article
up to the latest minute. His eye falls on the
garment of his friend.

"Why,  Bois-le-Comte, what are you thinking
of?  Your green and yellow dress looks like
an omelette in herbs. The grouse will be laughing
all over the moor, if you show yourself
among them in that fashion."  Monsieur was
glad to be informed upon the customs of the
place, and cheerfully returned into the house
to clothe himself in moorish fashion from the
Bookby wardrobe. The result was excellent,
except that he was troubled all day with an
uncertainty about his legs in consequence of
the smallness of his feet, and the width and
weight of the strange boots into which he
was advised to put them.

The morning was lovely; and a soft breeze
from the south,  the keeper informed me
privately,  was favourable for the scent. Everybody
was in high feather. As we passed
through a deep ravine, which extended for
more than a mile and a half between
overhanging rocks that almost closed out the sky
above our heads, I felt disposed to talk to
somebody upon the subject of the sublime
and beautiful; but everybody else was talking
about birds and dogs, and at the end of the
ravine our party split into its appointed sets,
each to depart to its appointed shooting-
ground,  "Do you go with us?"  asked Mr.
Bookby of his wife.  "Not unless Major
Woolwich be of your party. I go with Major
Woolwich for the sake of his iced milk and
water."

Now Major Woolwich, who was reckoned
the best shot of the party, had a way of teazing
his neighbours in the land of whiskey by
contemptuous argumentation against ardent
spirits. He found, he said, that a man could
work longer and better upon iced milk and
water. Being of that opinion, he was in the
habit of carrying about with him a small
icing machine. Such a machine he had brought
out with him to-day upon the moors, and this
was the machine with which he hauled the
lady over to his party. Sir Robert Scilly
said that he rejoiced to find himself quit of
Mrs. Bookby, for yesterday, when shooting
in her company, he had been so anxious to
show off with his firing, that he either missed
his birds or blew them up entirely. So we
shot about; our sport was excellent, the dogs
thoroughly under control, and every point
they made was a study for a Landseer.

At two o'clock our party encamped in a
little glen beside a sparkling rivulet, from
which we took water to dilute our wine or
whiskey, while we ate hard eggs, Symposium
pies, Hambro' sausages, and things of that
sort spread before us on the grassy cover.
The gillies occupied this period of rest in
spreading out upon the grass the spoils of the
morning, in order that the plumage of the
birds might be dried thoroughly before packing.
A damp feather will often spoil a bird.