contrary, no birds are easier trapped, even at a stale bait, than kites and buzzards. Once, and only once, I noticed a hen-harrier devouring what she had no hand, or rather foot, in killing. On Lennie Moor I wounded a grouse, and marked the spot where it towered and fell. The scent was bad, and my dogs could not find it. Two days after I was ranging the same ground, and a female hen-harrier rose out of the heather. She was giving the last polishing to the bones of my grouse. It is probable she might have noticed the bird fall, as hawks are very quick in detecting disabled prey. I have seen them single out the wounded bird from a pack, and stick to it closely. Upon one occasion a hawk made a desperate charge at a grouse I had actually knocked down, neglecting several others which rose at the same moment. him an uncomfortable salute with my second barrel. Next day was the last of our Highland trip, and my boy begged hard to be allowed to dedicate a couple of hours to the pike at Kilchurn.* He had caught his bait before breakfast, and borrowed a pike tackle, the waiter's old rod, and a small rickety reel with ten yards of very rotten line. We walked down to the castle of Kilchurn, which is surrounded by a shallow reach of water, a sort of enclosed bay from Loch Awe, full of large pike. A boat is a great advantage here, where sunk banks and feeding grounds abound in every direction, as in many of the shallower I gave The three best places on the loch for pike are Kilchurn, at the head, Port and Sherry Bay, half way down, where the pike generally run large, and, best of all, "the Foord " at the foot. Highland lochs. We soon hooked a large pike, which ran out our morsel of a line, and then snapped it. He most likely found as little trouble in disgorging the hooks as in breaking the line, which the following fact may show, and I can vouch for the truth of it. A Thames fisherman hooked a large "jack" when spinning at a mill-tail for trout. Not having a disgorger at hand, he cut the line and threw the pike into a tub of water, to keep it alive and fresh for sale the following day. To his amazement next morning, the creature had managed to cast up the eight-hook tackle, which was lying in the tub. The two following instances of the pike's voracity are almost incredible, but both I can also certify. In the spring of 1841, two pike of twelve pounds weight were cast upon Loch Vennacher shore, each with a hold of the other's jaws, and quite dead. The second instance happened in Suffolk. A jack of only two pounds was found choked in attempting to swallow another of a pound and a half. The gentleman who saw them taken out, only a short time before, told me the fact. But even these instances are equalled by the solemn toothless cod. A friend of mine was trolling in Loch Long, and hooked a seithe. An enormous cod seized the seithe, and paid the penalty by being brought into the boat himself. His girth seemed unnaturally large, and, upon opening him, a brown paper packet of sandwiches, enough for luncheon to a pretty large party, was taken out. They could not have been less injured, mustard and all, had the cod's stomach been a sandwich-box. Our pike has led me to digress. Having no more tackle, we contented ourselves, before joining the carriage which was to convey us to Inverary, with a view of the old castle, now very tottery and dangerous to ascend. Numerous daws were rejoicing in the holes and cavities. The osprey's nest formerly graced a high pinnacle, the owners having an abundant supply of food wherever they chose to seek it. Sea-trout of a large size I have several times seen in the watereagle's nest; but seldom pike, and never flesh of any kind. A gamekeeper wantonly shot the last of these beautiful birds that tenanted Kilchurn's turrets, and none have replaced them. I was delighted, however, when trolling Loch Awe last summer, twice to meet with a solitary osprey, probably the widower of Kilchurn Castle. In case he should take a second mate, I have given directions to my gamekeeper to watch in the spring whether they build in any of the moor lochans in the neighbourhood, where, I trust, they will be permitted to rear their family in peace. Having some arrangements to make at my summer quarters on Loch Awe about the middle of last May, I received a message from my friend Peter Robertson of the Black Mount, the purport of which was, that as the sea-eagle had been sitting hard for some time, he hoped there was little risk of a disappointment like my last. Next evening I arrived at his house. The moon in her crescent, a little shaded by dappled clouds, was casting her pale glow upon the untroubled waters of the forest, tempting us to steal a night-march, in order to surprise the eyrie by break of day. The fragrant air of the mountains made the spirit rebound, and a slight touch of adventure gave zest to the whole. There was just sufficient light when we neared the islet to distinguish the two eagles winging their way to the mainland. Both lit down near the shore, and eyed our proceedings with an indifferent bearing. It was plain enough the nest had been harried. With discomfited mien, the forester ascended the tree only to confirm what we felt sure of before. "I ken wha has served us this trick," says Peter, setting his telescope for a last look at our quarry on the shore. "He has swam in at nicht, the scoondrel, and ta’en the eggs or young for fear o' his lambs. Mony a time he has swam Loch Rannoch in the nicht-time to see his lass." Upon inquiry, I found that this daring fellow had, night after night, braved the winds and waves of that stormy loch, re-enacting upon the solitudes of Rannoch the farsung feat of the Hellespont. It naturally struck me, was his barefooted Scotch lassie worthy of such a courtship? Does she, now a Highland dame, feel a secret pride when, sitting at her cottage door on a summer evening, she catches a glimpse of the serene surface of her native loch? Or when the winter storm has raised the white wave, and the snowdrift has sent her stalwart shepherd to the hill, does she breathe the silent prayer of a thankful heart to the Preserver of his days when their love was young? With such thoughts, I scarcely felt disappointment at the termination of my delicious night-walk, and, when I considered the many night-swims the shepherd had taken for it, felt glad that he had gained his prize, though he had lost me mine. FRAGMENTS MANY birds, especially those whose young ones run as soon as hatched, and, being thus dispersed, are more likely to be stumbled on, have various arts to arrest the attention of the chance wanderer, and decoy him from the brood. The lapwing is always most clamorous when you are furthest from the objects of her solicitude. So is the curlew; but should you approach them, the mother appears quite careless and unconcerned. Grouse and partridges flutter along the ground as if wounded and unable to fly, the latter uttering a most discordant scream. I have always thought these birds overdo their part, and that the lapwing is far superior to them in the art of misleading. The manœuvres of wild-ducks are similar to those of grouse, and they give notice to the ducklings when they are to dive by a loud quack, which is instantly obeyed. But the most finished actress I have seen was a mire-snipe, which fluttered up exactly as if the tip of its wing was broken. It flew in this disabled manner for about ten yards, when it fell as if exhausted, |