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The following are the notes we have received from our Sporting
Contributor. I wish we could say they were a fair equivalent for the
notes he has received from _us_, to say nothing of that new Henry's
patent double central-fire breech-loader, with all the latest
improvements, and one of Mr. Benjamin's heather-mixture suits. Such as
they are we print them, with the unsatisfactory consolation that if the
notes are bad they are like the sport and the birds. Of all these it may
be said that "bad is the best."
_North and South Uist._--The awfully hard weather--the natives call it
"soft" here--having rendered the chances of winged game out of the
question, the sportsmen who have rented the shootings are glad to try
the chances of the game, sitting, and have confined themselves to the
whist from which the islands take their name. Being only two, they are
reduced to double dummy. As the rental of the Uist Moors is L400, they
find the points come rather high--so far.
_Harris._--In spite of repeated inquiries, the proprietress of the
island was not visible. Her friend, Mrs. Gamp, now here on a visit,
declares she saw Mrs. H. very recently, but was quite unable to give me
any information as to shootings, except the shootings of her own corns.
_Fifeshire._--The renters of the Fife shootings generally have been
seriously considering the feasibility of combining with those of the
once well-stocked Drum Moor in Aberdeenshire, to get up something like
a band--of hope, that a bag may be made some day. Thus far, the only
bags made have been those of the proprietors of the shootings, who have
bagged heavy rentals.
_Rum._--I call the island a gross-misnomer, as there is nothing to drink
in it but whiskey, which, with the adjacent "Egg", may be supposed to
have given rise to the neighbouring "Mull"--hot drinks being the natural
resource of both natives and visitors in such weather as we've had ever
since I crossed the Tweed. I have seen one bird--at least so the gilly
says--after six tumblers, but to me it had all the appearance of a
brace.
_Skye._--Birds wild. Sportsmen, ditto. Sky a gloomy grey--your
correspondent and the milk at the hotel at Corrieverrieslushin alike
sky-blue.
_Cantire._--Can't you? Try tramping the moors for eight hours after a
pack of preternaturally old birds that know better than let you get
within half a mile of their tails. Then see if you can't tire. I beg
your pardon, but if you knew what it was to make jokes under my present
circumstances, you'd give it up, or do worse. If I should not turn up
shortly, and you hear of an inquest on a young man, in one of
Benjamin's heather-mixture suits, with a Henry's central-fire
breech-loader, and a roll of new notes in his possession, found hanging
wet through, in his braces in some remote Highland shieling--break it
gently to the family of
Your Sporting Contributor.
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