150 A GOOD DAY'S SHOOTING. North. Not a bad day's sport, James? Shepherd. You dinna mean to tell me that you and Soothside, this blessed day, slew a' that ggem? North. We did-and more. (Enter CAMPBELL and FITZ-TIBBIE with their game-bags, which they empty on their division of the floor.) Shepherd. You dinna mean to tell me that you and Soothside, this blessed day, slew a' that ggem? North. We did-and more. (Enter MON. CADET and KING PEPIN with their game-bags, which they empty on their division of the floor.) Shepherd. You dinna mean to tell me that you and Soothside, this blessed day, slew a' that ggem? North. We did-and more. (Enter SIR DAVID GAM and TAPPYTOORIE with their game-bags, which they empty on their division of the floor.) Shepherd. You dinna mean to tell me that you and Soothside, this blessed day, slew a' that ggem ? North. We do-and more. (Enter AMBROSE and PETER with their game-bags, which they empty on their division of the floor.) Shepherd. You dinna mean to tell me that you and Soothside, this blessed day, slew a' that ggem?!! Soothside? Tickler. I do-and more. Shepherd. Then are ye twa o' the greatest leears that ever let aff a gun. North. Or drew a long bow. How many brace? North. How many brace? Campbell. Half-a-score, sir. Mon. Cadet. Seven, and a snipe. Sir David Gam. Eight, and an owl. North. How many brace? North. Tottle of the whole? Voice from the Spence. Forty-six brace-an owl and a snipe. Shepherd. That cretur's vice gars me a' grue. Gold and silver's deadlier than lead. You've been bribin Dalgleish. Mair poachers nor ane has been at the fillin o' thae pouchesbut ma certes, here's a vast o'ggem! Let's sort them. PARTRIDGES.-GROUSE. 151 That's richt, lads-fling a' the black-cocks intil the east corner, and a' the grey-hens intil the wast-a' the red grouse intil the north corner, and a' the paitricks intil the south-gie Gurney the snipe for his share, and Awmrose the owl to stuff for the brace-piece o' his bed-chaumer. North. Where the deuce are the hares? Tickler. Where the devil are the rabbits? (Enter ROUGH ROBIN and SLEEK SAM, with their gamebags, which they empty on their division of the floor-that is, on the table.) Shepherd. Fourteen fuds! Aucht maukins, and sax boroughmongers, as I howp to be saved! North. I read, with indignation and disgust, of the slaughter by one gun of fivescore brace of birds between eight o'clock and two. Shepherd. A chiel micht as weel pride himsel on baggin in a poutry-yaird as mony chickens, wi' here and there an auld clockin hen and an occasional how-towdie-and to croon a', the bubbly-jock himsel, pretendin to pass him aff for a capercailzie. But I ca' this sport. North. Which corner, James, dost thou most admire? Shepherd. Let's no be rash. That nyuck o' paitricks kythes1 unco bonny, wi' its mild mottled licht-the burnished broon harmoniously mixin wi' the siller grey in a style o' colourin understood but by that sweet penter o' still life, Natur; and a body canna weel look, without a sort o' sadness, on the closed een o' the puir silly creturs, as their heads-crimsoned some o' them wi' their ain bluid, and ithers wi' feathers, bricht in the pride o' sex, auld cocks and young cocks-lie twusted and wrenched by the disorderin haun o' death-outower their wings that shall whirr nae mair-rich in their radiance as flowers lyin broken by the wund on a bed o' moss! Tickler. James, you please me much. Shepherd. That glow o' grouse is mair gorgeous, yet bonnier it mayna be-though heaped up higher again' the wa'and gloomin as weel as gleamin wi' a shadowier depth, and a prouder pomp o' colour lavished on the dead. There's some thing heathery in the hues there that breathes o' the wilderness; and ane canna look on their legs-mony o' them lyin broken-sae thick cled wi' close, white, saft feathers—without thinkin o' the wunter-snaw! The Gor-Cock! His name Kythes-shows itself. 152 BLACK-COCKS.-GREY-HENS. bespeaks his natur-and o' a' the wild birds o' Scotland, nane mair impressive to my imagination and my heart. Oh! how mony thousan' dawns have evanished into the forgotten warld o' dreams, at which I hae heard him crawin in the silence o' natur, as I lay in my plaid by mysel on the hill-side, and kent by that bold trumpetin that mornin was at hand, without needin to notice the sweet token o' her approach in the clearer licht o' the wee spring-well in the greensward at my feet! North. James, you please me much. Shepherd. Yet that angle o' black-cocks has its charms, too, to ma een, for though there's less vareeity in the colourin, and a fastidious critic micht ca' the spotty heap monotonous, yet, sullen as it seems, it glistens wi' a kind o' purple, sic as I hae seen on a lowerin clud on a mirk day, when the sun was shinin on the thunder, or on the loch below, that lay, though it was meridian, in its ain nicht. Tickler. James, you please me much. Shepherd. O thae saft, silken, but sair ruffled backs and breists o' that cruelly killed crood o' bonny grey-hens and pullets — cut aff in their sober matronship and gleesome maidenhood-whilk the mair beautiful, 'twould tak a mair skeely1 sportsman than the Shepherd to decide-I could kneel doun on the floor and kiss ye, and gather ye up in my airms, and press you to my heart, till the feel o' your feathers filled my veins wi' luve and pity, and I grat to think that never mair would the hill-fairies welcome the gleam o' your plumage risin up in the mornin licht amang the green plats on the slopin sward that, dippin doun into the valley, retains here and there amang the decayed birkwood, as loth to lose them, a few small stray sprinklins o' the heather-bells! Tickler. James, you please me much. North. I killed two-thirds of them with Old Trusty-slapbang right and left, without missing a shot Tickler. Singing out, "that's my bird," on a dozen occasions when it dropped at least a hundred and fifty yards— right in an opposite direction-from the old sinner's nose. Shepherd. What was the greatest nummer ye brocht doun at a single discharge? North. One. Shepherd. That's contemptible. Ye o' the auld Lake-school 1 Skeely-skilful. SHEPHERD'S MODE OF SHOOTING.—A SNIPE. 153 are never contented excepp ye kiver your bird, sae that if ye dinna tak them at the crossin, ye shoot a haill day without killin a brace at a blow; but in shootin I belang to the new Mountain-school, and fire wi' a general aim intil the heart o' the kivey, and trusting to luck to gar three or four play thud; and it's no an uncommon case to pick up half-a-dizzen, after the first flaucht o' fire and feathers has ceased to dazzle ma een, and I hae had time to rin in amang the dowgs, and pu' the ggem out o' the mouths o' the rabiawtors. It was nae farder back nor the day afore yesterday, that I killed and wounded nine-but to be sure that was wi' baith barrels― though I thocht at the time-for my een was shut-that I had only let aff ane-and wondered that the left had been sae bluidy, but baith are gran' scatterers, and disperse the hail like chaff frae the fanners on a wundy day. Even them on the edge o' the outside are no safe when I fire intil the middle, and I've knawn me knock heels-ower-head mair nor ane belangin to anither set, that had taken wing as I was ettlin at their neighbours. Tickler. I killed two-thirds of them, James. Shepherd. That's four-thirds atween you twa-and at whase door maun be laid the death o' the ither half? Tickler. Kit with Crambo killed a few partridges in a turnip field, where they lay like stones-an old black-cock that had been severely, if not dangerously wounded by a weasel, and fell out of bounds, I suspect from weakness—an ancient grey hen that flew at the rate of some five miles an hour-a hare sitting, which he had previously missed-and neither flying, nor sitting, but on the hover, that owl. How the snipe came into his possession I have not learned, but I have reason to believe that he found it in a state of stupor, and I should not be surprised were you, James, to blow into his bill, to see Jack resuscitated Shepherd (putting the snipe's bill into his mouth, and puffing into him the breath of life). Is his een beginnin till open? North. Twinkling like a duck's in thunder. Shepherd. He's dabbin. North. Hold him fast, James, or he'll be off. Shepherd. Let doun the wundow, Tickler, let doun the wundow. Oh! ye clumsy coof! there he has struggled himsel out o' my hauns, and's aff to the mairsh to leeve on suction! (Enter TIBBIE and DOLLY to lay the cloth, &c.) Tickler. Symptoms of dinner. Shepherd. Wi' your leave, sirs, I'll gie Mr Awmrose the hares to pit intil the gig. [Gives MR AMBROSE the hares, who disappears four-in-hand. North. Whose gig, James? Shepherd. Mine. I'm expeckin company to be wi' me a' neist week and a tureen o' hare-soup's no worth eatin wi' fewer than three hares in't; sae sax hares will just mak twa tureens o' hare-soup, and no ower rich either-and the third and fourth days we can devoor the ither twa roasted; but for fear my visitors should get stawed o' hare—and auld Burton, in his anatomy, ca's hare a melancholy meat-and I should be averse to onybody committin suicide in my house-Tappy, my man, let me see whether you or me can gather up on our aucht fingers and twa thooms the maist multitude o' the legs o' black-cocks, grey-hens, red grouse, and paitricks; and gin ye beat me, you shall get a bottle o' whisky; and gin I beat you, I shall not put you to the expense o' a gill. (Aside)The pech has twa cases o' fingers, wi' airn-sinnies, and I never kent the cretur's equal at a clutch. [The SHEPHERD and TAPPYTOORIE emulously clutch the game, and carry off some twenty brace of sundries. Tickler. James, you please me much. North. You astonish me, James. Shepherd. Some folk are easily pleased, and some as easily astonished—but what's keepin the denner? (Enter TIBBIE, and DOLLY, and SHUSEY, AMBROSE, MON. CADET, PETER, CAMPBELL, BILLY, PALMER, ROUGH ROBIN, SLEEK SAM, KING PEPIN, SIR DAVID GAM, and TAPPYTOORIE, with black-grouse-soup, red-grouse-soup, partridgesoup, hare-soup, rabbit-soup, potato-soup, pease-soup, brown-soup, white-soup, hotch-potch, cocky - leeky, sheep'shead-broth, kail, and rumbledethumps.) North. Ay-ay. Tickler. Haigh! let's Shepherd. Hech!-Noo that we've a' three said grace, fa' to—and to insure fair play, let ilka ane fill his neighbour's plate, as in an ass-race ilka ane rides his neighbour's cuddy. Tickler. And let no man say a good thing, except between courses. |