the fascination of deer-stalking is largely due to the romance of the hill—the hill as it is known only to those who love it and understand something of its hidden mysteries. the long day, all too quickly ended, with the silent but sympathetic stalker—alone with nature in its most inspiring and elevating form—the ever-changing beauty of sky and hill—the joy of watching deer when they have no suspicion that they are being watched—the opportunities of seeing rare birds and finding rare plants—all these things apart from the difficulty and interest—and the greater the difficulty the greater the[2] interest—of trying to outwit—in other words trying to get within shot of the particular stag one is after—go to make up the attractions of what some of us think is the very best of true sport.

i well remember a famous statesman, who had himself owned one of the best deer forests in the highlands, saying to me that the greatest attraction of stalking is that it takes one to places where otherwise one would never go, and enables one to see the most wonderful things which otherwise one would never see. further, there is probably no form of sport where less pain and suffering are inflicted, assuming that any one who stalks will take the trouble to know his rifle well, and will not take a long or risky shot. the shot itself after all plays only a small part in the pleasure of a day’s stalking. i have friends, first-class rifle shots, who delight in stalking, and who, when they have arrived within shot of the stag they have stalked, will sometimes not shoot at him at all. this would not always be easily accomplished by those who have strongly implanted within them the instincts of the hunter, or perhaps i should say the primitive man.

again, to pass from stalking, what is the real[3] explanation of the intense enjoyment of ptarmigan shooting on the high tops after the close of the stalking season? i have more than once heard this described as the most enjoyable of all kinds of shooting. as is well known, on a still clear day the ptarmigan is the easiest of birds to shoot, but on a wild windy day one of the most difficult—twisting and turning with extraordinary rapidity. neither this latter fact, however, nor the exhilarating and bracing air at the altitude where these birds are to be found wholly explains the enthusiasm of those who have had this sport. i have no doubt that the environment of the high hills and all that this means are largely the cause of this enthusiasm. the delights of grouse shooting, whether in the case of driven birds, or over dogs, are greatly increased by the same cause. without entering upon the well-worn controversy as to the respective advantages and disadvantages of these two forms of sport, is there any one who has enjoyed both of them amid the hills who has not ineffaceable memories of the vistas of marvellous beauty which he has revelled in again and again while waiting in his butt for the first birds of the drive, and—to change the scene—of the pleasures of many a glorious[4] twelfth in the company of an old friend with whom he was in perfect sympathy, watching the dogs at work amidst the purple heather on the side of the hill or along the heather-clad banks of a burn?

it is true also of salmon and trout fishing in the highlands that the angler’s sense of peace and contentment is largely due to the influence of the hills. this is especially so in the golden days at the beginning of august, those glorious days before the serious fun begins, when the trout in the loch are more of an excuse than a serious ploy, when one discusses the growing antlers of the big hart on the home beat, when one basks in the sunshine of the high hills.

whilst writing what i have already said about stalking i recollected the following verses, which i intend to keep and read for my encouragement in days to come—days which are, i hope, still very far off:

northward bound

(once more)

does your heart still beat with the old excitement

as you wait where the scotch expresses are?

does it answer still to the old indictment

of a fond delight in the sleeping-car,

as it did when the rush through the autumn night meant

the gate of desire ajar?

[5]

or has the enchanting task grown tougher,

and has that arrow beyond you flown?

for the hill that was rough enough is rougher,

the steepest climb that was ever known,

and the forest appals a veteran duffer

sorely beaten and blown?

oh! the years, the years, they be rusty and mothy;

oh! the flesh it is weak that once was strong;

but the brown burn under the stone falls frothy

and the music it makes is a siren song;

then the pony’ll take you as far as the bothy,

and that’ll help you along.

see! from the tops the mist is stealing,

out with the stalking-glass for a spy;

round craig an eran an eagle’s wheeling

black in the blue september sky.

a fig for the years! why, youth and healing

at the end of your journey lie.

(reprinted from punch, sept. 14, 1921, by kind permission of the proprietors.)

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