OTTER-HUNTING.

IN a sense the sport of otter-hunting is a relic of the past; the otter-hunting of to-day is in no way changed from the otter-hunting of a hundred years ago. And perhaps it is on this very account that we are disposed to hail it the more heartily, because our other field sports are so different, because their character has been completely altered since the olden time. He who pursues game now a days, for instance, goes forth armed with deadly modern contrivances and equipped with trains of gamekeepers and carriers of the slain, while the simple art of falconry is all forgot, or only known because its memory is embalmed in the never-dying verses of the poets. The chase, too, as it used to be, is never followed now no huntsman's horn rings out now a merry note upon the forest sides in these days our noble stags are doomed to meet a treacherous death from the rifle, and the lingering remnant of the deer-hounds' race is left to lounge idly on the hearths of a few ancient mansions. And in like manner with all our sports; the aid of science has been invoked and a revolution has swept over them, a modernising spirit has stamped them with its mark and the bloom of romance is gone. But it is different with otter-hunting. Its associations are all of the past: we hunt our hounds, we chase our otter, we cheer and dash along just as they did of old. When you go otter-hunting, you can almost fancy you are stepping back into the past and leaving behind the din and bustle and conventionalities of the present. The

sport leads us where time leaves no traces to mark its flight the hills and glens look as wild and grand as ever, the streams run on in their ancient course, singing their ancient dirge, and there is nothing to tell of the nineteenth century. The innovating spirit, indeed, has been powerless on this sport, the ivy of ages has climbed around it but its vitality is not impaired, its capacity for delighting us is not gone. We hunt the otter to-day just as our fathers did in the times gone by, when fair ladies shared the toils and the enjoyments of the chase and minstrels sang the renown of mighty deeds.

My first run with the otter-hounds was on the river Ayr. We met at half-past five o'clock on a lovely summer morning at the Old Bridge of Stair. There is much of novelty and beauty about the surroundings of this sport of otterhunting. In taking us afield very early in the morning, it reveals to us a phase of nature not familiar to most men, but yet, of all her phases, perhaps the most delightful. The morning air is most exhilarating, the brightness of the morning light most enchanting. Morning beauty, indeed, is very different from evening beauty in some respects they cannot be compared; the colourings of sunset are richer and deeper and its tints more mellow, yet its splendours are at the best just as they are flitting into the gloom of night—it is the end of the day and something of sadness is associated with it. But the peculiar power of the morning is to inspire new confidence and spirit. Hope rises with the rising sun and floods all nature with its brightness and our spirits unconsciously drink in the contagion.

To take up my narrative, however, for there is little time for such abstract considerations at an otter-huntSandy, the huntsman, came up, punctual to the hour, with the hounds at his heel. They were rather a motley pack, not handsome but stately-looking dogs, big and strong, with fierce fangs and deep-toned voices. And this voice of theirs

is what, perhaps, most strikes a stranger: their full chorus on hot scent, once heard, is not casily forgotten. It makes the very blood tingle in one's veins-but more of this anon. Brief greetings were exchanged and the hounds uncoupled and laid on the dam under the bridge. In a minute they were eagerly at work. An old hound, Harmony, the Ajax of the pack, led off a detachment for the other bank, while the rest took up our side, hunting every hole and corner, every drain and tree root, passing over nothing that could conceivably shelter an otter. the field (about twenty strong), followed on foot. The rationale of the sport is easily explained. otter feeds during night and often rambles long distances upon the river; accordingly, the dogs are hunted along the river edges very early in the morning, before the sun destroys the scent, and, when a scent is found, they "drag" it up till they fall in with the otter.

And we,

The

Fortune, so often fickle, was this morning most favourable towards us, for we had not proceeded three hundred yards from the Old Bridge, when we found a drag. The old dog gave tongue loudly and confidently, the next dog confirmed it and immediately the whole pack, catching up the music, rushed forward, while, with a cheering shout to them, we followed. On we went for some distance at a great pace in full cry, till the master's horn called a halt. He was afraid we were dragging a back scent and, to make sure, in the first place he took the dogs back and tried down stream. At first it seemed as though he had been right, for the hounds marked scent at once below the dam and went off down the water. But the music dropped off, the scent got worse and worse, until it failed them altogether, so we turned back again and laid on where first we stopped. Immediately the dogs found a warm scent and were off a third time in full cry. The pace was fast and we were soon in the upper reaches of the river; below the country was comparatively lowland and

level; now it changed and the stream came down through rocky, thickly wooded glens. There were no banks to walk on, so we took to the bed of the river. Splashing on we went, sometimes on dry stones, oftener up to the knees or even deeper, always as fast as our legs and our poles would carry us. The stones were slippery and numberless the tumbles and wettings on every side, but no one stopped to help or to condole. The river was low with summer drought; and away before us, just in sight, along the dry margin the big dogs were dragging a hot scent, the wet glistening on their rough coats in the morning sun and the glen ringing with their rough music. On through the splendid scenery, past trouting pools and clear swift-running shallows, until at last we found the otter's earth, in a warm, sandy bank, on the margin of a long deep pool, its entrance hid among the knarled roots of an old tree. It was quite plain when we came up that the otter was at home. The big dogs, wild with excitement, were scraping furiously at the hole, tearing the tree roots with teeth and claws and struggling desperately to squeeze themselves into the narrow entrances, while the little terriers and young hounds were gathered round, jumping and yelping like dogs demented. At last the huntsman's whip restored some kind of order, the big hounds were drawn a little off and the terriers got in. But our game was immovable, until we jumped and stamped upon the top of the bank and then, with a wild rush, he bolted right into the water. A splash -and he was gone. The dogs took the water after him and swam all about, waiting his coming up to breathe. I took my stand at the foot of the pool, where the water left it with a sharp run. Presently I caught a glimpse of something gliding past me along the bottom-it was the otter, and we passed a signal to the master who was at the top of the pool. Five minutes elapsed before the hounds could be led down the stream and, when they did come, they went a long way before they felt a trace of him. Our party

pushed on fast, hoping to head him, and lined the run at the foot of the next deep pool. Nor were we disappointed; for, in about a minute after we had taken our stand, he came up to breathe quite close before us. We saw him well and he looked at us steadily. He appeared, almost, as though he could not understand the situation and were debating it in his own mind. At last it seemed suddenly to dawn on him; down he went and, in a space of time short beyond all expectation, the signal was passed from above that he had run up stream again.

Our otter proved good game and we had more than an hour of this exciting work, up and down. Sometimes the dogs were at his very heels and then again he slipped away and for a while we lost all trace of him. Once a clever double had given him a twenty minutes start away and we were getting quite disheartened. The dogs were utterly at fault and the Highland gentlemen were among them, trying to cheer them on, when suddenly the loud tonguing of a single dog away high up in the wood took all attention. Was it a young hound after the rabbits? The huntsman blew his horn and cracked his heavy whip, but the tone grew louder and more earnest, the whole pack dashed off towards it and we soon followed, clambering up through the tangled hazelwood as fast as possible. The young hound had been right: the otter had evidently made tracks across country towards a neighbouring stream, for the hounds passed over the ridge of the glen in full cry and went out of our hearing. In a short time, however, we heard them again heading back towards the river, but far on before us. To go on from where we were was quite impossible, the underwood was so thick and the glen so steep, so we had recourse again to the river bed and pushed along a dry gravelly shore, till we caught up on the hounds. They had had a check and were beating back and forward uncertainly among the cover at the ridge of the glen. We halted to watch the turn of events