ouch the grun' in his
mouth, like a mountebank wi' a shour o' oranges!"--"Hamish, are they
bagged?"--"Ou ay."--"Then away to windward, ye sons of bitches--Heavens,
how they do their work!"

Up to the time of our grand climacteric we loved a wide range--and
thought nothing of describing and discussing a circle of ten miles
diameter in a day, up to our hips in heather. But for these dozen or
twenty years bypast we have preferred a narrow beat, snugly seated on a
shelty, and pad the hoof on the hill no more. Yonder is the kind of
ground we now love--for why should an old man make a toil of a pleasure?
'Tis one of the many small coves belonging to Glen-Etive, and looks down
from no very great elevation upon the Loch. Its bottom, and sides nearly
half-way up, are green pastures, sheep-nibbled as smooth as a lawn--and
a rill, dropping in diamonds from the cliffs at its upper end, betrays
itself, where the water is invisible, by a line of still livelier
verdure. An old dilapidated sheepfold is the only building, and seems to
make the scene still more solitary. Above the green pastures are the
richest beds and bosoms of heather ever bees murmured on--and above them
nothing but bare cliffs. A stiff breeze is now blowing into this cove
from the sea-loch; and we shall slaughter the orphan family at our
leisure. 'Tis probable they have dropped--single bird after single
bird--or in twos and threes--all along the first line of heather that
met their flight; and if so, we shall pop them like partridges in
turnips. Three points in the game! Each dog, it is manifest, stands to a
different lot of feathers; and we shall slaughter them, without
dismounting, _seriatim_. No, Hamish--we must dismount--give us your
shoulder--that will do. The Crutch--now we are on our pins. Take a
lesson. Whirr! Bang! Bag number one, Hamish. Ay, that is right,
Ponto--back Basta. Ditto, ditto. Now Ponto and Basta both back
Piro--right and left this time--and not one of the brood will be left to
cheep of Christopher. Be ready--attend us with the other double-barrel.
Whirr! Bang--bang--bang--bang! What think you of that, you son of the
mist? There is a shower of feathers! They are all at sixes and sevens
upon the greensward at the edge of the heather. Seven birds at four
shots! The whole family is now disposed of--father, mother, and eleven
children. If such fire still be in the dry wood, what must it have been
in the green? Let us lie down in the sheltered shade