Gamekeepers and Gillies I Have Known

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVII, Issue 14, 6 October 1906, Page 28

Gamekeepers and Gillies I Have Known

By SIR

HERBERT MAXWELL, Bart.

(FROM BEACKSVGOD’S MAGAZINE.”)

IN the retrospect to which the elderly sportsman turns so often and so fondly certain figures stand out very clear, guides and ministers to his pleasing—unsparing critics, mayhap, of his performance, hut ever ready with hand and head to contribute to his triumphs, Sharing with him that special kind of comradeship which, engendered only in the open air, cannot grow to perfection unless under one of three conditions---campaigning, seafaring, or the pursuit of wild animals. In the retrospect to which the elderly sportsman turns so often and so fondly, certain figures stand out very clear, guides and ministers to his pleasure—unsparing critics/ mayhap, of his performance, but ever ready with hand and head to contribute to his triumphs, Taking the last of these three—what paramount wisdom and authority we, as boys attributed to huntsmen, gamekeepers and gillies, yielding to their precepts the deference due to prophetic utterance. In youth, we emulated their endurance and prowess, accepting without question their dogma upon the nature of beast, bird and fish; and now that youth is beyond recall, do we not cherish each quaint turn of phrase which conies to tnind, and envy the simple, concentrated lives into which common interest and occupation have given us some insight, obliterating distinction of rank and disparity of income. It is in the field, in the forest, hy the river side, that one realizes best that "The rank is but the guinea’s stamp, The man’s the gowil for a’ that.” chafed under their tyranny, resented, their dogma, smiled at their foibles, yet withal hew empty the scene would be Mere they absent, how void and vapid the sport without their eager comment. And so to-day, instead of recounting imy of my own feats or failures by flood or fell, 1 am going to dive into the past and recover some recollections of a few of the good fellows who have worked so bard to provide me with sport. The first dive shall be a deep one, into the far-off days of boyhood, when my very first preceptor in the rudiments of shooting and angling was John Pace. Of all 'the characters with which I have become intimate in any’ rank of life, John’s was one of the cleanest and most sincere. Of English parentage —his father was a Staffordshire gamekeeper—. John served all his life in the North, and became more Scottish than any Scot. His first place as underkeeper was at Blantyre, whence he was promoted to Sir Michael Shaw Stewart’s fine territory of Ardgowan. This was in the ’thirties, a period when driving grouse or walking them up in line had not boon dreamt of; every bird was killed over flogs, and both setters and pointers had been brought to such perfection of breeding and training as very few sportsmen in these days have any experience of. The remarkable influence over dogs Which John was found, to possess, and the excellence to which he carried their performance on the moors of Greenock and Ducbul, soon brought him into notice; so when my father, who had married a daughter of the house of Ardgowan, applied to Sir Michael about 1830 to recommend him a head gamekeeper, be was told that he could not do better than take John Pace, although he was at

that time only three or four and twenty. Never was there a more propitious engagement. It was the beginning of sixty years of such single-minded service as it is not often the fortune of an employer to receive, and of such perfect mutual confidence and affection as only such service can secure. John Pace’s dogs were a joy to behold. He began with Gordon setters, beautiful glossy creatures with black silken coats faced with rich tan—a peculiar colouration arising, some say, from a cross with the bloodhound, according to others betokening a dash of dark eolley. The race originated in the Duke of Gordon’s kennel toward the close of the eighteenth century. Nobler and more docile animals I have never seen than Pace’s Gordons. He used to work three brace of them simultaneously, as easily as a single dog : but there is no doubt that they took a lot of training, and John’s discipline was rhadamanthine. Hares abounded in the country in those days; to break young dogs from fur he resorted to the severe automatic punishment of the puzzle-peg. This was a. 'stout piece of ash, shaped at one end to fit under the dog’s lower jaw, to which it was attached by a loop of cord passing under the tongue. The other end was narrowed to a stout, cylindrical peg. projecting five or six inches beyond the dog’s muzzle. Having fitted a brace of young setters with this equipment, John would loose them off on a stretch of heather, where a hare was certain to be started before long. Away went the young ones in hot pursuit; no check nor warning occurred so long as they ran, heads up, sterns down, in view; but once let them put their noses down to run by scent —the peg stuck into the ground, the dog received a violent wrench of the lower jaw, and was thrown head over heels. It required but three or four repetitions of this experience to cure the highest eouraged Gordon of the faintest inclination to look at hares again. As for setting game, the Gordons did that naturally. They were encouraged to range wide, and took such advantages of the liberty as to fill the minds of south country sportsmen, accustomed to pottering pointers, with dismay. Hut so staunch were these dogs that, when two of them were settinggame at widely separated places on the hill, John would take the guns to the nearest, very deliberately pick up any game that might be shot, and then proceed to attend to the other point. Very seldom was his confidence misplaced; which was well for spectators with tender hearts, for the towelling administered to a dog that forgot its duty was not pleasant to behold. By the time I had become fairly proficient with a single-barrelled muzzle-loader, being then a. lad of ten or eleven, my father had let most of his gorse-ground, and the Gordon setters had been supplanted by a kennel of pointers. These were found more suitable for partridge shooting; not because the Gordons were less handy and docile, but because the thin-eoated' dogs suffered less from heat in low and inclosed ground and among deep turnips. They were not heavy-jowled, pottering animals, these pointers; but a swift, rather light type, with a dash of foxhound blood. If the Gordons surprised a stranger

by their rapid and wide range of the it fairly took his breath away when John Paee loosed off two, tlfrce, or four of these black-and-white or liver-and-white pointers in a September stubble or forty acre turnip field. The puzzle peg had made them perfectly steady from fur; but it seemed impossible that these fleeting, flashing creatures could pick up the scent of a crouching covey in time to save mishap. John’s faith in his beauties was well-founded. It was the rarest thing possible that one of them flushed a covey by accident. Much of the agricultural land in Galloway is broken by rocky knowes, rough with grass, whin and fern; strips and patches of corn stubble or green crop wind in a labyrinthine manner among shreds of the primitive surface, and these surroundings greatly enhanced the charm of a point. A dog might be racing along the crest of "one of these knowes, when, presto! he stopped as if smitten by a spell. Not a word from John! just a lifted hand to warn the other dogs which, might not have viewed their comrade. Then was seen the charming group of whieli modern sportsmen can have so little experience; the dog that found the game, holding the point; the others backing to him with eager, anxious countenances, in every variety of statuesque attitude. So perfect was the discipline of these animals that John Paee had not the slightest difficulty, nor, it may be added, remorse, in beckoning up one of the backing dogs to take the point from the legitimate finder, who obediently fell back to the second place. But it would have moved the stoutest heart to mark the pleading in the displaced one’s eyes. I have only to close my own eyes to revive a scene enacted fully forty years ago. On a wide, sunny hillside, heather-clad and strewn with grey boulders, three brace of shining pointers are ranging swift and far. Not a word of guidance do they require; just a note on the whistle now and then, and a wave of John’s hand, to make them cover fresh ground. To and fro they race, crossing each other’s orbits, quartering every rood of heather. Suddenly a liver-and-white bitch wavers in her gallop, draws forward a few paces, and stands quivering. All the other five dogs stand or crouch, then creep slowly up in rear of her who has found the game. Such a study of pose in these six high-bred creatures! One after another they are all given wind of the game, as John silently summons each one to take the point in turn; until finally—up gets a single old greyhen! Tn one department of his kennel John was not exemplary—he never had a decent retriever. He considered the professional retriever useful in cover shooting, especially for hares and rabbits, but he never would employ one with his setters or pointers in the field; holding that to all&w a dog to dash and grab up fallen game unedr the very noses which had first discovered it was too sharp a trial to inflict upon his favourites. He hated f therefore, men who brought their own retrievers with them; for it wan his invariable practice, part of his educa-

tional system, indeed, to recover deaS and even winged, game With his pointers, Mid to reward them by allowing; them not to mouth it, but to nuzzle it. have seen a couple of guns go up to a point in a field of high turnips. The birds rose singly, or in twos or threes, and at the end of the fusillade there were seventeen to piek up. Every one Was found by, and lifted before, the pointers. Of course all this took time, which was reckoned but lightly in the leisurely old muzzle-loading days, though it would be voted intolerable now. I ant not drawing any invidious comparison between the modern plan of campaign, which marshals an army of beaters with waving flags across a whole countryside and requires nothing of the guns except their .superior marksmanship, and the older system, upder, which a couple of sportsmen, accompanied by a head keeper and two or three assistants, went quietly to work and so manoeuvred as to land at a Convenient hour beside a clear spring to munch their frugal provender. I am prepared to admit that what has been lost in pointers has been gained in retrievets, which arc now of a number and excellence unknown of old. Brit the change was a sore trial to John Pace, who was -past middle life when it began. His patience, Hever, very elastic, was sorely tried by the introduction of breech-loaders. Front the ingenious mechanism he could not withhold admiration, for he loved a pretty gltn; but he Used to wax very indignant at the pressure entailed upon his dogs. "Down charge!” was no unmeaning observance—no mete feature of disciplinary- parade; it provided a valuable breathing time for animals that had been racing at top speed, perhaps under burning sun among suffocating turnips. Many a time have I marked mute chagrin depicted Upon his honest features when young fellows pressed before the dogs at a point, and sent in their retrievers to gather the slain, without a thought for the gallant creatures that had found the game for them. Many a time has ho unbosomed to me his indignation afterward; vainly, I fear, for I was young and keen, and took pride in the performance of my own retriever. Year by year the pressure became greater, as first the fashion of walking in line, then of driving, established them-' selves more firmly in favour; until at last men voted painters a. bore, and the old order of things passed away forever. I recollect a fine ahi black-and-white pointer called Rake, which proved tort much altogether, fol- the nerves of a friend who came to shoot with me. Rake had a queer habit when drawing upon game of looking round and glaring in the face of the shooter with appalling solemnity. “I wish you would tic that dog up,” exclaimed my friend, after, letting fly ineffectually at a covey; “he gives me the jumps. I ean't hit a barndoor when lie looks at me like that.” Reverting to John Paco as my earliest preceptor in sport, how pure and enduring were. Ids precepts. It must always be a mutter of luck or chance through whose hands a boy’s tastes and habits shall receive their bent; and nd influence is more potent for good or ill

than that Of hie initiator in woodcraft and field-lore. I have had experience »f poisonous practices on the part of snore than one professional preceptor of youth, possessed of unexceptionable refeemces; but I cannot recall, in all fny constant boyish intercourse With John Pace, a single word or sentiment or act, uttered or done by him, that my mother would have wished me not io hear or see. Many of his sayings hnd many instances of his example remain undimmed by lapse of years. They may not be worth repeating; but when I see fond parents solicitous to prevent their children associating with servants, and hear them deploring the carelessness of some young mother in allowing her children to do so, I make mental comparison of John Pace’s influence upon my character with that of certain pastors and masters to whose care I was entrusted later. There are noble servants, just ns there are ignoble masters! and who may reckon the percentage of nobility in either class? I can but testify that so far as the evil in my life may be traced to intercourse with others, it was contracted from social equals and superiors, and in no single instance from inferiors. To all dealings with his neighbours, high or low, John applied the invariable test—ls it honourable? He had an obstinate stutter, and pronounced the word “ho-o-o onOrable.” No prefix chevalier ever showed more delicate discrimination in the application of that epithet to the most ordinary affairs. For instance, very few gamekeepers, perhaps not many sportsmen, feel any compunction at shooting along the marches as hard as on any other part of tile ground. Can we all disclaim ah inclination t<? punish the vicinity of our neighbour’s land a trifle more severely than fields nearer home! Well, that was a practice for which John instilled into me a strong repugnance. "It was not ho-o o-ohorable,” said he, and his tendency Was always to give the march a wide berth. n matters of smaller ethical moment also he had very derided prin-ei-'les. He deemed it unsportsmanlike

to shoot peewits or curlews, an observance which it were well if it were better regarded at Die present day. Holden plover, of course, were proper game; but he was fastidious in the matter of water-fowl, among which he only reckoned wild-geese, mallard and teal as creditable trophies; pochards, goldeneyes and lotted ducks, in his opinion, were pretty and useless creatures not to be molested.

Perhaps because, winter in, winter out, they were the first things he saw in the morning—for his house stood on the margin of a bay in a lake that has norv been a- sanctuary for water-fowl for more than seventy years; and into this bay nil wild fowl except widgeon and teal, most nervous of the duck tril>e, are accustomed to resort, to gather the crumlis that full from the table spread for the swans.

As for coots and water-hens, he could not restrain expressing disgust when some over-ardent sportsman floored them. If it was argued that they were far from bad eating, he would reply, despite his English parentage, “ Ay, m-m-maybe thae English’ll eat them. Hod! they’ll eat onything. They eat eels, ye know! - ’ And he would shake his sides with laughter, as though the statement were wellnigli incredible. John Pace completed fifty years of active service at Monreith before he retired on well-earned full pay. The last ten years of his life were sorely vexed by a disabling and peculiarly painful disease, which he bore with inflexible stoicism. Sunt lacrymae rerum —it was mournful to see one, once so stalwart and indefatigable, reduced to a cripple’s stroll and chair; but he suffered no complaint to vex his visitors, only saying patiently, with a shake of his good grey head, “ We must just submit.” While life endures, the scent of a velveteen coat will always bring back to me the memory of my earliest lessons in angling, when, encircled by John Pace’s guiding arms, I let the baited hook swim down the burn, and pulled out trout of a lustre and iridescence unknown in these latter days. It is a far cry from grey Galloway to brown Caithness; yet is the distance not

so great as to account for the contrast in air, in light, in landscape, in peop'e. It is like passing to a different realm. ‘"Brown Caithness” I have called it; for although the land breaks info blossom at midsummer —golden whin, purple bell-heather, bluebells, stitchwort, fragrant moor orchis, and the like —I know it liest before winter has relaxed its grip, when the earliest salmon ascend meandering Thurso. Brown is then the dominant tone in this eerie land.

In this brown setting moves a tall, lithe figure clad in brown homespun, brown-bearded, brown-cheeked, with steady grey eyes —my fishing gillie, Sandy Harper. Sandy was a fine specimen of that excellent blend of races—the Highland Celt and the Norseman—uniting the charming manners and ready speech of the Gael with the more steadfast qualities of the Seandanavian. Needless to remind the reader that the Norseman kept his grasp upon Caithness and Sutherland long after the rest of the Scottish mainland had passed under the sway of native kings. Not till the very close of the twelfth century were the jaris brought into subjection to the Scottish crown; seven centuries have done little to obi ter ate racial character —little, save the vernacular has changed sinee the Commissioners of English Edward halted a night at Halkirk in tire autumn of 1290 on their way to receive the ill-starred Maid of Norway as the betrothed of tte? first Prince of Wales. But though the speech of the people, is Saxon, the old Norse names crop up everywhere, designating permanent land features. A brotherangler, wlro had passed the previous summer in Norway, once observed to me what he considered a curious coincidence, that. Loeb Watten, a sheet of fresh water between Halkirk and Wick, should bear the same name as a lake near his lodge in Norway. Natural enough, quoth I, seeing that vatn is the Norse word for water. Sandy Harper was a crofter, occupying a few wind-swept acres near Scots Calder; but the most important part of his vocation was that of gillie to salmonfishers and grouse-shooters. The croftcan have done little but keep him and

bin family in meal and nvHk. baron and [mtatocs. He was a spfeadM specimen of his kind, over six feet high, Well knit, with handsome features and a truly commanding presence a very lord among other gillies. To see him emerge from his low-browed, smoke stained hovel, such as any Sanitary authority in the South would have condemned as unfit for habitation, gave rise to sundry reflections upon the vanity of building regulations. Corresponding to Sandy’s physical development was his mental cquipmr nt. Polities and natural history were his favourite subjects: one could discuss them as freely with him as with an equal, though he had seldom been out of his native wilds, and then only ou brief visits to some of the sportsmen who employed him on the river or moor.

What struck me as most unusual in one of such restricted experience was tire absence of prejudice, and of that intellect ual rigidity which binds a man irrevocably to acquired or preconceived opinion. In talking polities, for instance, he was not, so eager to air his own views as to learn the opinions of others upon subjects in which he could hardly have been expected to' fake mitcli interest. " I was bred a Liberal,” he said to me one day, “ and in matiy things I’m a Liberal yet; hut what converted me to the Conservatives was Lord Salisbury’s foreign policy.'’ Against most gillies one has to record the loss of a fish now and then, but Sandy’s hand and eye were unerring. I cannot recall a single instance of his bungling a chanes with the gall'. Skillful and attentive as Sandy was in the capacity of gillie; his value as a. companion was greatly enhanced by his conversation, his sense of humour, and his knowledge of local lore. I once asked him whether Mr had known Robert Dick, the Thurso baker, botanist and naturalist. Whose fine collection of old red sandstone fossils is preserved Ju the Geological Museum. Jermyn street, and of whom the Into Dr. Smiles wrote Bueh an excellent and sympathetic biography. "‘Oh, I mind Robert fine,” said Snifilv-

“W ell do I mind him: a fine man. but a bud baker. He jusl ruuu.-d himself with his fancies, letting the bread spoil in the baking while lie was ta'en up wi’ some auM-warf. doctrine. There was a neighbour passed him one day how king and hammering in Gerston Quarry yonder. ‘A fine day, Robert,’ he cried. ‘What are ye seeking there?’ ‘Fish,’ quo’ Robert, and went on ,wi* his work. ‘Queer kind o’ fish in a place like yon,’ said the other, and away he went down the road to Thurso, t-dling a’ the folk that Rb-la-rt Dick; the baxter, had gone clefin demented, seeking fish wi’ a "hammer in Gerstqn Quarry!” I feel that it is .idle to attempt Sandy’s portraiture divorced from the environment of that strange land of Caithness, whence winter, the season w hen I know it best, seems to banish not only all token but all promise of verdure. I shall not forget the last time I saw Sandy beside the river he knew so thoroughly and loved so well. . It was in that rocky gorge, three or four miles below Loch Morse. where Thursa abandons its habitual sloth, flinging • itself about among the rocks and churning out foam in reckless profusion. I had arrive 1 at a sheutered nook under a elrtr crowned with a ruined keep, the name whereof I cannot recall, although. like every relic of the middle ages in this bind, it has its record of midnight massacre, fire and rapine. Below the castle the river glides deep and dark between opposing cliffs, forming a fine salmon east, known as the Devil’s Pool. Sitting down to eat my luncheon. I badc Sandy take my rod and fish the. cast. A gleam of wintry sunshine lighted the weird'acene, and, as I watched my gillie casting, I thought it would be hard to match such a fine type of manhood. His unconscious pose was so statuesque, his thigh boots set off his lengthy limbs so well, his action with Ihe rod was so graceful, the brown boots and .browner water threw his sunlit figure into such high and delicate relief, that the picture shines out clearer than most others in the dim gallery of the past. I could not help feeling a trifle envious of such a fine animal, so greatly my superior in stature, strength? anil good looks. As he fished, he repeatedly scratched' his ear, which, when he came from the water, was bleeding a little. He thought it had been chapped by cold. Ah! little as either of us suspected it. the finger of death was'there.' When I returned a year later to the Thurso, Sandy Harper was my gillie no more. He was bed ridden. smitten with cancer, and when I visited his humble dwelling, those once handsome features were swollen and distorted alpiost beyond recognition. Only the perfect manners and good breeding of the man were unchanged. He" wasted no time iii complaint, and only spoke of liis disease in reply to my inquiry? though it. moved me almost to tears when he said simply: “I am sorry, Sir Herbert, when I think I shall never Im on the river with you again.” Then,, although the swelling had almost closed his moitth. and it was evident that speaking caused him much pain, he began to discuss the prospects of the fishing season as keenly as if it were lie. not I. that was concerned in it. When 1 rose to leave, he asked a question curiously characteristic of his active intelligence.—a question which, until the present time, has baffled all scientific research, “f want to ask you,” said he. ‘‘you that understands these things, iA this trouble of mine caused by si bacillus tfr not?” There I left bim in his lowly box-lied, my comrade in many a wild day’s'sport, and thence they carried him. a fortnight. Inter, to lay beside bis people in the. lonely cemetery. • What a crowd of minor characters claim recognition as one reviews the past. There was old Tofts, head keeper to the Earl of Galloway, presiding over the home beats of his master's princely domain. In physique, his only peculiarity was that his complexion seemed to be of parchment: come fold or fair, or rain or shine, it never lost it# whiteybrown tint. Many a pretty day's sport liave 1 had with him alotig the well-clad shores of Wigtown Bay, reminding one of the meeting of Mount Edgeeumhe woods with the waters of . Plymouth Sound. ■ - - -£■ Toft's reputation, luckily, did not rest upon the quality of his dogs, which was indifferent; but lie hud a quaint, confidential way with them, which was soini times amusing. Somebody having fired at a hare and imagined it wounded, called out for a dog. Tofts let go a gaunt, rusty-coated animal, which disappeared on the trail and was seen no

more for a while. We sat down to luncheon, and were half finished before the animal reappeared without the hare. O« being asked whether he thought the dog had eaught the hare and left bent down, seized his dog’s muzzle, and smelt it. “No,”,said he, “I think he has not been in ctantct with it,” Then there was Alee Boyle—a robust, rather short, swarthy fellow, with a merry eye, a great c~ony of mine in my school holidays, possessed of the only good retriever in the establishment presided- oyed by John I'ace. It was a creature of patchwork jiedigree, fearfully ami wonderfully made, brindled in unearthly fashion with drab and'black, but of intelligence almost human. Alee'- chief failing was of a convivial nature, which once afforded a parliamentary candidate a fine opportunity for a platform, joke. The occasion was an election meeting in a moorland schoolhouse; to describe the night ns inclement would Ire to pay it an undeserved compliment. The wind raved and the rain poured; finding a weak place in the roof, a drip descended on Alec’s curly black head’ lie shifted his place several t imes, till the candidate, interrupting his dissertation, observed; ‘‘That is the first time I have ever seen Mr. Boyle .decline a drop!” a topical allusion which found instant appreciation among the audience. Tom Hogg was another well-remem-bered worthy, now passed to-his rest. A native of Ett rick. I believe, where others of his surname have left their mark, he is connected with some of my earliest and brightest recollections of shooting:, for ho had charge of some of the late. Earl of -Stair’s fine moors on the Water of Luce. I shall be accused of prejudice, no doubt, if I express regret that such days as I have spent with Tom Hogg and his fine pointers may never bo had again—if 1 state my conviction that no luncheon, however elaborate, can ever be so savory as the pocketful of provender which each man bundled up for himself at. breakfast. For that was the rule or old in that most liberal establishment. No general luncheon was provided; paper and string were laid oir the side table. Experienced guests had learned the prudence of making their provisions before eating a. hearty breakfast ; post-prandial-appetite being an unsafe test-of what might prove to be their requirements after noon. It was under Tom Hogg’s . auspices ■that I first experienced the excitement of grouse-driving, it was a novelty in Scotland in those days: no. rdgjdaf.butts were provided for the shooters, who concealed themselves as best they might in peat hags, behind a convenient - "stone dyke, or by simply crouching in the heather. In such circumstances not only was the practice ratter ineffective an.l uncertain, but there was considerable risk of accident owing to the imperfect “dressing” of the line of guns, their concealment from each other, and because we had not learned the obligation to take birds only coming or going, and not to follow them round. The concern of a certain moment is still present to me, when, having fired at some birds crossing to the left, E heard a loud shout from an invisible neighbour: “Hie, hie, there. Take care what you're doing. You’ve. shot me!” Concern deepened into horror when, at the end of the drive, I found the said neighbour bleeding profusely, a white silk handkerchief and the whole front of a light-coloured jacket being deluged with gore, presenting a truly ghastly spectacle. He was a well-nourished gentleman of florid complexion, and it was 'a mighty relief to find that the whole of the. mess came from the pilneture of a single shot in his rosy cheek. Thank God it was not his eye, as it might have been; in which case I should riot be recounting the incident with so much levity. Tom Hogg was a typical south-country Scot. quietly observant and ready with dry comment. His vocabulary was occasionally ambiguous; as when he invited me one day to subscribe to an Aperient Society. Now, like every other M.l*., 1 was inured to solicitation on behalf of every form bf-reefeation and many kinds of enterprise; but toe aim anj. organization of an Aperient Society baffled all conjecture. “That’s surely a funny kind of society, Tom,” said I; “how does it Work?” “Oh,.it’s just a club p’ beekeepers,” he replied: “we’re great at the honey hereaway, ye ken.” I was enlightened at once, ana willingly contributed my mite to the Apiarian Society. Fprty years ago, broad Scotland contained no more hospitable roof-tree than that of Dunragit—no more charminghost than the gallant admiral who whs laird

thereof. Visitors often came without notice, but never without a genuine welcome, sure of a full share of all that field or flood could provide. By ancient and picturesque tenure the whole right of salmon fishing in the Water of Luce and its tributaries was vested in the lairds of Dunragit, from source to mouth, and beyond the mouth as far as a man might east a javelin, riding into the sea at low tide. Those who can recall old times at Dunragit will not have forgotten the two Sandies—Sandy Weir and Sandy Clenaehan, gamekeepers. 1 had most to do with the latter, whose somewhat sinister aspect, belied his excellent qualities. Sandy was not always communicative; but, when the spirit moved him, his narrative was graphic. I remarked to him one day that it was curious that the Luce, which looked like an ideal trout stream, should produce nothing but fingerlings. , “Ay, but there’s big troots in the water,” said he, “if a body had the skcell o’ eatchin’ them.” “What makes you think so, Sandy?” “Oh, I'm no’ thinkin’; I ken it fine.” Then, after a pause, “Ae day a gentleman from Manchester was fishin’ troots alxiot the Loups o’ Kilfeather, and he heukit a big yin. Awa’ it went doon the water wi’ him. maybe twa mile, till he cam’ doon to the Bloody Wiel —that’s where the railway bridge is, ye ken. I earn’ up wi’ him there, and I seen the fish. Peace! but that was a material troot.” “Did he get him out?” I asked. “No’ him!” was the reply. “He was that spent, the body, wi’ rinnin’, that he could barely pit the tae fut before the t.ither. Sae when the troot begoud to steer again, and was for aff doon the water, he jist stood like a paralectick; and the troot smashed a’ and awa’. We saw nae mair o’ him but the wauf o’ a great tail as he gacd roond the rocks that’s there.” “How big was he, Sandy?” “Dod. I ken no hoo big he’d be; but this I ken finely—he was the biggest yellah troot that ever I seen.” “Are you sure «t wasn’t a red salmon?” . * “Oh, salmon! Na. it wasna a salmon. A salmon never had spots on him the same as I seen on the side o’ yon troot. They were as big as thae brammle leaves’’—pointing to some blackberry bushes by the wayside. Another time we were discussing the undesirable presence of pike in some lochs, and their providential absence from others. Sandy spoke of pike in a certain loch which I was not aware contained them. “Bur-,” said I. “there are no pike in Loch Ma berry, are there?” “’Deed is there!” answered Sandy; and then, after one of his characteristic pauses, added, “Ae day I was gangin’ along the side o’ yon loch, an’ I seen a thing in the water, 1 tiiocht it was a tree.” Another pause. “An’ then I saw twa e’en in it.” “And what was it, Sandy?” I asked breathlessly. “Oh, it was a pike,’’ he replied laconically. “And what did you do, Sandy?” I persisted impatiently. “I gaed back fine the loch for fear o’ him! ” By this time Sandy had entered my own service as underkeeper, and I had beeoine aware of an interesting fact about the name. He stood on the paysheet as Alexander McLean, but, although Gaelic has not been spoken in Galloway for nearly four centuries, he was known to all men in ordinary life by the name of Sandy Clenaehan, the familiar rendering of his patronymic being a survival of ancient Celtic usage. Such are a few of the phantoms moving across the camera obscura of memory. Prosiness is the sin that doth so easily beset old sportsmen, and I am conscious of having committed it; but perhaps it may be reckoned more venial when the motive is to pay kindly tribute to some of those who have contributed so much to bygone pleasures.