The young grouse made the acquaintance of the biggest deer on the hill, a king of stags, with brow, bay and tray antlers, who explained that he was a stag royal. This acquaintance was made one afternoon in early August when the grouse family were feeding on some succulent grasses by the side of the burn where the stag came to drink.
“I am more than pleased to meet you again,” said the stag. “I wish you and your family as sure an escape from the shot gun as I hope to get from the rifle.” So saying he trotted off, and Father Grouse spread his feathers just as though he had been a blackcock in a juniper tree, and challenged as loudly as he could.
“Last September,” he said, turning to his wondering son, “after my parents had met with misfortune passing over the butts, I found myself on some high ground near the big corrie. The royal stag you saw just now was resting there with his family, and he had been seen by the stalker. I was sitting on a heather tuft thinking that now I had lost my parents I should have to join the grouse pack, when I saw the stalker and the man who shoots the stags, crawling along the ground in my direction. They wanted to get behind the stag and shoot him as he sat head to wind.
“I can see them now—the stalker very cool, and the shooter very tired. As I looked I thought I recognised him as the man who had shot my parents. I did not hesitate, but rose up when they were almost near enough to touch me, flew within hearing of the stag and called out:—
“Who goes there? The gun, the gun.”
“The royal stag and all his family scattered, the stalker put down his gun and took up his whisky-flask; the man who had shot my parents used language no respectable grouse could listen to without feeling ashamed. They went to the wood for their lunch and my cousin, the grey hen, heard the stalker say he thought they had walked twelve miles after that stag. Kok-kok.”
It was good to be alive in those August days, to wake up when the sun started work, look out for food in the morning and late afternoon, and lie close through the heat of the day. The southerner had taken the shooting on lease and spent one or two days looking over the land, to the great delight of Father Grouse, who declared that no bird need suffer uneasiness on his account.
“All old men,” said Father Grouse, “would fire into a pack without hurting anything.” This was on the night of the 11th August which happened to fall on Saturday. Sunday, the 12th, brought no guns to the moor, and Father Grouse was first puzzled and then delighted. “I have it,” he said at last; “there will be no grouse shot this year, that stout man knows he will have no chance against us. He will try to shoot stags because they are bigger. Kok-kok.”
Monday, the 13th of August, found the grouse family up betimes; they fed heartily, as was their custom, and then retired to shelter from the heat. Father Grouse, Mother Grouse, three daughters and the one son, comprised the family now. Once or twice Mother Grouse stirred uneasily and said she heard men, but her husband remonstrated with her.
“You are very nervous, my dear,” he said, “haven’t I told you there will be no shooting this year? They will be cutting the corn in the lower fields soon, and we’ll go down there to feed on the stooks. You want a change of diet to strengthen your nerves. I know well enough you have no occasion for uneasiness.”