WILD-GOATS

I HAVE often thought that for those who have a taste for deer-stalking, without the opportunity, it might be no bad substitute to have a flock or two of goats upon a remote range of hills. The idea suggested itself to me from having heard and seen a good deal of the nature and habits of a few kept wild upon an island in Loch Lomond. These goats, originally a breed between the Welsh and Highland, were very large, and the oldest inhabitant does not recollect when they were first introduced. After having been completely left to themselves for a few generations, they became very cunning and suspicious, always haunting the most out-of-the-way craggy places they could find; and one precipice in particular has been called from time immemorial Crap-na-gour, or Hill of the Goats. They have now rather deteriorated, from the fine old wild ones having been killed off, and some of the tame kind substituted to cross the breed. The hair of some of the old " Billies" of the wild breed was eighteen inches long; and I have contrasted a horn of the last fine

specimen of the race, shot many years ago, with a goodsized one of the domesticated species. To stalk these halftame goats afforded no small diversion, and I have seen several sportsmen engaged nearly a whole day before the fatal shot was fired. But in their wilder state, I am told, they showed amazing game, tact, and cunning in eluding an enemy. The hero, whose horn I have represented, managed to escape several of the most experienced hands in the country, some with ball and others with buck-shot, for a couple of days. He was brought down on the evening of the second day, after being hard struck a short time before ; and I have been assured that even larger than he have been killed upon the island, with horns proportionably finer.

Another circumstance also made me imagine that goatstalking might be practicable. One of my father's tenants, who farmed the remote range of Glen-Douglas, had a flock of goats pastured among the precipices. This flock was always under the command of the shepherds and their dogs. A fine old Billy, however, broke away from the rest, and spurned all control. This lasted upwards of a year, when he became so completely wild that it required half a dozen shepherds, with their guns, to range the mountains for some days before he could be shot.

As further proof how strong the love of freedom is implanted in the goat, I last summer heard of another patriarch of the flock, who appeared also disgusted with the monotony of his tame life, and, like the captive Bedouin longing for the desert, again sought his congenial wilds. He left Tyndrum, wandering from mountain to

mountain, a passing shepherd now and then catching a distant glimpse of him in his progress, and was at last discovered to have chosen his quarters in a retreat as savage and solitary as that romantic district could afford.

I am aware that many objections might be raised against my suggestion; first, that the goats would never be wild enough to afford sport, and that, if they were, they would be apt to take refuge among inaccessible rocks and precipices, where no man could stalk them. I own that it would be many years before goats could become quite wild, but if a fine breed were turned out on some of the steepest and least frequented of our mountains, and especially if they were never disturbed or brought to bay by dogs, I have no doubt that their progeny would become fit for stalking. And as to sheltering themselves in rocks and precipices, they would be far less apt to do this when they had acquired confidence in other means of escape. I only, however, mention goat-stalking as an untried amusement, and think it might be worth while for the proprietors of Highland mountains to make the experiment. Sheepfarms, where deer never remain, would answer the purpose. Goats do not interfere with the sheep, and generally choose the roughest ground where the pasture is of least value. It is unnecessary to say that the old males would be uneatable, but the mountain-fed kids are reckoned very delicious.

THE heather was bare and run to seed, the bell had long faded, and the grouse were wild and packed, when I received a note from my brother to say "that, in consequence of the mischief the flock of wild goats had done to the newly planted trees on his deer island, he had determined to extirpate them; but had reserved the two old Billies for my rifle." Well pleased, I obeyed the

summons.

The evening I came to Rossdhu was dull and cold; rather watery looking for the west; but at grey of next morning I threw up my window, and was happy to find that it had cleared to bright starlight, with a crisp night frost. The ivy owl was sounding his melancholy note, foreboding abdication, while old chanticleer welcomed the first faint streaks of the dawn by a blast from his cheery trumpet. It had a curious effect, and seemed a contention between the spirits of night and morning. It was a good omen, for the sun rose in cloudless lustre, and by breakfasttime was flaming down upon the antiquated beeches, now

in their rich and variegated autumnal tints, and casting his warmest glow over the red and withered bracken upon the slopes of the distant hills.

I found the bearded chief was at least ten years old, and his henchman about two years younger. They had been the progeny of a cross between the original wild black goat of the rock, and a tame white Billy of very large size, who fell a victim to the change of life; having hanged himself by the horns on a yew-tree, in attempting to feed upon the higher branches. They had been bred among the craggy ravines on the unfrequented part of the island, and had never left them. A four-oared yawl was soon manned by hardy Highlandmen, and we pushed off for Crap-na-Gower.

There is nothing more exhilarating than the air of these calm autumn mornings. The breath of spring may be more fresh and fragrant, but it is not so buoyant nor clear. The little robin seems to feel its effect; for his monotonous but plaintive wail, sadly sweet, like a lament for summer, is always loudest then. Our loch was calm as glass, and reflected the wooded islands and copses of various hues, relieved here and there by the dark Scotch firs, with their knotted and twisted branches. A black-backed or giant gull, perched upon a large stone at the end of Inch Moan, was shouting his rough music (which sounded doubly atrocious over the calm expanse) to another couple, floating at a distance so airily upon the clear water, they scarcely seemed to touch it. The giant gull is a beautiful fellow, with his snowy breast and dusky wing; and, barring his voice, is the greatest ornament to our inland lochs