I was coming back one evening after a delightful day’s stalking in Glen Carron, when the stalker Macdonell said, “One moment, sir, there is a stag down there just gone out of sight. If you can shoot off your knee downhill you will have a chance directly.” I sat down and waited, and in a few minutes the stag appeared. I believed I was steady and on him in the right place. Directly I fired he galloped off. “I’m thinking you’d better shoot again,” said Macdonell. “What’s the use,” I replied, thinking I had shot the stag through the heart. However, as I spoke, I did shoot again out of respect to Macdonell, whom I knew to be a very experienced stalker, and the stag rolled over like a rabbit which has been shot in the right place. “Now we will see,” I said, “where the two bullets went.” “I’m thinking,” said Macdonell, “you missed him the first time.” “You may be right,” I replied, “but I don’t think so; one thing I know, and that is that if I did and had known it, I should probably have missed him with my second shot also.” On examining the stag we could only find one bullet mark, and on skinning him we found that one bullet only had struck him, and that was through the heart. Macdonell no doubt thinks to this day that I missed the stag with my first shot, and killed him with my second when he was galloping; but I still have my doubts. The moral is that though one sometimes hears the unmistakable thud of the bullet striking the stag, there are other occasions when it is difficult to be certain as to what has happened, and therefore it is always wise to satisfy one’s self in the matter as far as possible. Still more is this essential when stalking alone. In stalking alone, there is this advantage, that one can always secure the best position in which to shoot, whereas if one is accompanied by a stalker, he sometimes takes that position himself and it is not easy to get him to move on, or, as is more often the case, there is no time for him to do so. Charles J. Murray of Loch Carron, to whose kindness I am indebted for many delightful days’ stalking, is particularly devoted to this form of sport. A few seasons ago I was obliged to come south before the end of the stalking season, and received from him a letter which describes, far better than I can, the pleasure of being out alone on the hill. “You are missing the West Coast,” he wrote, “at its (_weather_) best! for we have a spell of gloriously fine weather when the stag can hear a footstep half a mile off, and the wind is so gentle that it cannot make up its mind which way to go, but strays gently to and fro and round in little circles, stimulating evil words among the stalkers.