MR. BRIGGS IN THE HIGHLANDS
Reading edition
By John Leech
Mr. Briggs, feeling that his heart is in the Highlands a-chasing the deer, starts for the North.
Before going out, Mr. Briggs and his friends have a quiet chat about deer-stalking generally. He listens with much interest to some pleasing anecdotes about the little incidents frequently met with—such as balls going through caps—toes being shot off!—occasionally being gored by the antlers of infuriate stags, &c., &c., &c.
Mr. Briggs, previous to going through his course of deer-stalking, assists the forester in getting a hart or two for the house. Donald is requesting our friend to hold the animal down by the horns.
[N.B. The said animal is as strong as a bull, and uses his legs like a race-horse.
The deer are driven for Mr. Briggs. He has an excellent place, but what with waiting by himself so long, the murmur of the stream, the beauty of the scene, and the novelty of the situation, he falls asleep, and while he takes his forty winks, the deer pass!
As the wind is favourable, the deer are driven again.
Mr. Briggs is suddenly face to face with the monarch of the glen! He is so astonished that he omits to fire his rifle.
To-day he goes out for a stalk, and Donald shows Mr. Briggs the way!
After a good deal of climbing, our friend gets to the top of Ben-something-or-other, and the forester looks out to see if there are any deer on the hills. Yes! several hinds, and perhaps the finest hart that ever was seen.
To get at him, they are obliged to go a long way round. Before they get down, the shower, peculiar to the country, overtakes them, so they "shelter a-wee."
With extraordinary perseverance they come within shot of "the finest hart." Mr. B. is out of breath, afraid of slipping, and wants to blow his nose (quite out of the question), otherwise he is tolerably comfortable.
After aiming for a quarter of an hour, Mr. B. fires both his barrels—and—misses!!!! Tableau—The forester's anguish
The royal hart Mr. Briggs did NOT hit.
Mr. Briggs has another day's stalking, and his rifle having gone off sooner than he expected, he kills a stag. As it is his first, he is made free of the forest by the process customary on the hills!—
And returns home in triumph. He is a little knocked up, but after a nap, will, no doubt, go through the broad-sword dance in the evening as usual.
MR. BRIGGS GROUSE SHOOTING
9 a.m. His arrival on the moor.—Mr. Briggs says that the fine bracing air makes him so vigorous that he shall never be beat. He also facetiously remarks that he is on "his native heath", and that his "name is Macgregor!"
[The result of the day's sport will be communicated by electric telegraph.