It is a pleasant contrast in the blazing month of July, when one passes from the parched stubbles of the corn-land, or the arid half-shade of the olivar, and enters upon the green luxuriance of the vineyard. Eye and mind are refreshed by that broad expanse of spreading vines clothing hill and valley with their close-set trailing verdure.

Nothing can be a greater contrast than the appearance of the vines at Christmas or in January when not even a branch survives, each vine then being cut back, till nothing remains but a gnarled, knobby stump some two feet high, limbless and lifeless. The vineyards then assume a barren hungry look, a grey expanse studded with rows of the inanimate stocks.

During early spring much care and labour are devoted to the vineyards. The soil around each vine is drawn back with hoes and small adze-shaped spades, the blades of which are turned inwards, till the plant stands in the centre of a hollowed square, the heaped-up earth around serving to catch and direct the moisture towards its roots. For a time the vineyards resemble huge chess-boards, till in April the spreading tendrils and bright green leaves once more hide the face of the earth from view.

The scene around Jerez at vintage time is a busy and picturesque one—the narrow sandy lanes alive with gaudily-trapped mules bearing panniers of grapes to the wine-presses, and creaking bullock-carts conveying newly-pressed "must" to the Jerez bodegas. The vineyards themselves are thronged with vintagers—all of the male sex, for in Andalucia woman's right to take any part is altogether ignored.

The vintagers work in gangs of ten, each under the direction of a capatáz, dexterously lopping off the bunches of grapes with their ever-ready navajas, or bowie knives. The bunches are thrown into "tinetas," square wooden boxes, each holding some twenty-five pounds of grapes. As these are filled the men hoist them on their heads and march off to the almijar or court adjoining the presshouse. Here, after all blighted and decayed grapes are removed, they are then spread out to dry in the sun, and remain thus exposed for from one to three days, when they are ready for the press.

The long wooden troughs, or lagares, having been partially filled with grapes, a couple of swarthy bare-legged fellows in striped shirts, and leathern shoes studded with broad-headed nails, jump into each lagar and, after spreading out the bunches, commence footing it ankle-deep among the crushed fruit, while the juice pours forth through spouts into casks placed to receive it. The men dance with a rapid swaying movement which is held to express the juice from the grapes in a more satisfactory manner than can be accomplished by any known mechanical appliance.

The vindimia, or vintage, is always an animated scene, whether on the gently undulating vine lands of Andalucia, or in Portugal, on the steep terraced slopes of the mountains which shut in the wild Alto Douro. Afar across those Lusitanian glens resound the musical chant and characteristic sing-song ditties of the Gallegan peasantry—like cicadas, they sing and answer each other from hill to hill the livelong day, the happy, despised, bond-slaves of the Peninsula, who, at vintage-time, flock from their rude barren province of Galicia to revel in abundance in the Alto Douro on a couple of testoons, say, tenpence a day, supplemented by an allowance of oil, a few salted sardines, rice, and stock-fish, and of broa, or maize-bread, and the accommodation of mother-earth to sleep upon, with a roof overhead through which the star-light and the silvery rays of the harvest moon gleam in at a hundred chinks and crevices. A happy lot, these Gallegans, happy in the possession of content, happier far than their more impulsive brethren, the socialistic peasants of Andalucia, of whom we have just spoken.

Portugal.—The Vintage in the Alto Douro.

The wine district of the Alto Douro, whence comes our port wine, is a singular region, extending some thirty miles along either bank of the river, but chiefly on the north side, in the province of Traz-os-Montes, and having a varying width of five to ten miles. The whole paiz vinhateiro consists of grey and arid-looking mountain-sides, divided by deep gullies and ravines, and all so steep that their soil of friable mica-schist, more like bits of broken slate than fertile earth, can only be cultivated by means of terraces roughly built up, tier above tier. Mountain after mountain has its sides thus scored with terraced lines like Cyclopean staircases, and on particular slopes as many as 150 may be counted rising one above another, the effect of which is most peculiar. Here and there a gleaming white casa, with its grove of orange and cypress-trees; or a water-mill, shaded by oaks and chestnuts, breaks the monotony of the landscape. Below, the yellow Douro courses swiftly, bearing picturesque boats, high-prowed and long-hulled, impelled by a white cloud of sail, and steered by a huge oar worked from a pivot in the stern-post, while far above the zone of vineyards rise mountain peaks in jagged outline.

Twenty years ago the Alto Douro could only be reached on horseback, crossing the Serra do Marão by the Pass of Quintella. A pleasant ride it was, nevertheless, in September, by Cazaes, traversing the valley of the Tamega to Amarante, famed for its peaches and "vinho verde" (green wine, so rough as to bring tears to one's eyes); thence up the slopes of the Marão, and through the granite defiles of Quintella, which look down upon Pezo da Regoa and the valley of the Corgo. It was here—in the Baixo Corgo—that the port wines of three generations ago were vintaged; now all the most valued growths come from further east, beyond the Corgo (Cima Corgo).

Dangerous during times of flood are the snag-set rapids of the Douro, as many a little cross or inscription, cut on the impending rocks, bears witness. That rude mark indicates the spot where some poor fellow has lost his life, perhaps a whole boat's crew; and our men, as we pass each memorial tablet, remove their hats and cross themselves with simple piety.

At intervals we pass picturesque cargo-boats, upward bound, and laboriously making their way against the current, motive power being supplied by a gang of watermen hauling on a tow-rope ashore. Where the path becomes precipitous, one sees the string of bare-legged men walking, as it were, down perpendicular rock faces like flies on a wall, each hanging on by the sustaining rope. As already mentioned, there is now-a-days a railway to the Upper Douro, and much of the picturesque river life of twenty years ago is a thing of the past.

Spain.—The Vintage in Andalucia—(Continued).

And now follows one of the most curious circumstances known in œnology. The wines thus made—the uniform produce, be it repeated, of a single vineyard, gathered the same day, pressed in the same lagar, and subjected to identical treatment—develope wholly different characters and qualities. Some of the casks prove to be wines of the highest grade and value; others indifferent, some coarse, and some even vinegar. Then amongst those casks which have developed into the wines styled in Jerez finos (i.e., soft, dry, and delicate, with a fresh, pungent flavour), there is found here and there one which has acquired the rare and highly valued amontillado character.

This singular inequality in development appears to be merely a matter of chance—of caprice in fermentation; and is quite inexplicable and uncontrolled by any known laws or causes. Some years ago an attempt was made to bring the light of modern science to bear on the old rule-of-thumb methods of "rearing" sherry. An English scientist of high standing essayed the task of assuring an approximately equal development of all the wines grown in one year and one vineyard. The result, however, was unsuccessful; or if an approximate level was attained it was, unfortunately, the level of mediocrity, or worse; the wines operated upon were destroyed, and the savant left Spain under a cloud.

One soon grows to like and appreciate these rough red wines of Northern and Central Spain, whose generous fulness and refreshing asperity are so requisite in this hot land. After a course of several months of the Riojas and Valdepeñas of Spain, how thin tastes that first bottle of the Bordelais—price two francs—at the breakfast-buffet of Hendaye!

HIS NATURAL HISTORY AND HABITS.

Is the Great Bustard polygamous or not? We have watched these birds in early spring-time, following every movement, and at quarters close enough, with the binocular, to distinguish the very feathers: we have inquired of the best and keenest bustard-shooters on the Spanish plains—men who ought to know—and yet are unable to give a positive opinion. The best ornithological authorities are also silent on the point, or treat it in doubtful terms.

The Andalucian Bustards may be divided into two classes:—(1) Those which inhabit the undulating corn-lands extending from Jerez and Utrera eastwards—by Marchena and Osuña—to Bobadilla and the borders of Malaga province, which race is stationary throughout the year; and (2) the Bustards of the marisma, or flat delta of Guadalquivir and other great rivers, which seasonally shift their ground.

The corn-land Bustards (as we will call them for distinction) are altogether a finer and heavier race than those of the marismas, scaling commonly twenty-nine, thirty, and thirty-one pounds—some huge old barbones exceeding even this great weight; while birds of the semi-migratory race run from twenty-four to twenty-six or-seven pounds, rarely reaching twenty-eight, and show less of the magnificent ruff-development which, in spring, characterizes the old males of the campiñas of Jerez.

It is, nevertheless, a magnificent spectacle to watch, perhaps, ten or a dozen of these huge game-birds, all "showing off" under the early rays of an April sun, and set off amidst the green corn and flower-spangled herbage—each as he slowly struts round, "echando la rueda," displaying alternately the swollen gorget and yellow-barred back, then the white underparts.

This state of affairs continues during March and into April; rehearsals, but no actions—at least we have seen none. The males really appear to show off rather one to another than to the females, which, though not far off, exhibit no more visible interest or concern than does our grey hen under similar circumstances. About the 20th of April the hen lays her two big greenish eggs amidst the growing corn, and disappears; but even this circumstance has no appreciable effect upon the other sex, who continue for weeks their complacent performances in spite of the fact that the females—for whose behoof these displays were presumably inaugurated—are no longer present to admire, as they have now commenced the duties of incubation.

These "islands" comprise vast areas of level pasturage—in winter bare of herbage, almost dry mud, but by April, knee-deep in richest grass and vegetation, resonant with the "whit-ti-wit" of unnumbered quail. On these flowery plains are reared some of the choicest breeds of the fighting bull—those, for example, of the Marques del Saltillo—which may here be admired at leisure.

The first point in the life-history of these Bustards of the marisma is their semi-migratory character. We do not mean to infer more than that they are locally migratory, shifting their ground according to season and food-supply, but not leaving the country or crossing any sea. Africa is the only country they could go to, but Otis tarda appears to be unknown, or at any rate very scarce, in Morocco and Algeria. Their migrations are confined to Spanish territory. In the middle of May, while ibex-shooting, we have observed a flight of seven Bustards in the heart of the Sierra de Ronda, passing high over those lofty peaks.

On these plains there are Bustard of one sex or the other (not always both) at all seasons. The males leave the pasturage for the corn in February and March, followed later by the females as the laying season approaches. Both sexes are then seen in mixed bands as above described—two or three up to a dozen males in each band composed of five or six times that number of females, but never in single pairs or a single male consorting with a female retinue.

The eggs are laid in the last week of April (we found two females, already sitting each on two eggs, on the 26th), and about mid-May the males disappear. To Africa they have gone, the local shooters aver; but this, we know, is not the case, and are far from sure that the missing males are not simply hidden amidst the vast stretches of corn, then near four feet high, pending their moult.

Bustards moult very severely, casting all quill-feathers (as wild geese do) almost simultaneously. Hence, at the end of May, they become for a time incapable of flight, and naturally, under such conditions, seek the utmost seclusion, perhaps deceiving people into the illusion that they had gone, when they are really simply in hiding, which the rank summer vegetation renders easy enough. After eggs are laid, the males certainly desert their mates entirely, forming themselves into bachelor coteries, and leaving to the female the entire burden of the nursery.

Bustards take two years or more to acquire maturity: the year-old males are hardly larger than adult females, possess neither ruff nor whiskers, and do not breed. They probably continue growing for three or four years, or even more. An old barbon, when winged and brought to bay, will turn and attack its aggressor, hissing savagely and uttering a low guttural bark, "Wuff! wuff!" Except on such occasions we have not heard any vocal sound from a Bustard; nor do they, when winged, ever attempt to escape by running.

While the Great Bustard takes chief place amongst the game-birds of Europe, both as regards size and sporting qualities, his smaller relative, the Little Bustard—in Spanish, Sison—must certainly head the list of the wily and unapproachable.

Against the Great Bustard, watchful as he is, fair measures can successfully be brought to bear, but no skill that we know of—none, that is, of legitimate sporting kind—will avail against the Sison. We may at once classify him as the most difficult of all game-birds to bring to bag. That he is frequently shot is no disproof of this assertion. The birds being abundant, it would be strange indeed if none fell "haphazard" to chance shots when the sportsman is in pursuit of other game.

The habits of the Little Bustard are, in general, much the same as those of the larger species. They frequent, in the main, the same ground; the young are reared amidst the security of the ripening corn; in autumn they form into packs or bands, and spend their days upon the open plain.

We have not, however, met with these birds on the dead-level plains, so attractive to the Abutarda, and their preference is undoubtedly for more undulated lands. We have observed them as far up as corn grows on the foothills of the sierra.

During the fiery heats of summer these birds may be shot by the artifice of the bullock-cart—already described in the chapter on Great Bustard—or be exhausted by repeated flights; but neither of these plans possess the merits of really attractive sport, while the second involves hard work under a heat that few men can stand.

There are, however, times when the Little Bustard may be secured upon easier lines. Upon occasion, in autumn, they become so enamoured of certain spots, beguiled by the plentiful supply of grain scattered around the eras, or levelled threshing-grounds out in the open field, that, like greedy blackcocks on a Northumbrian stubble, they "take a haunt" (toman la querencia), and allow themselves, evening after evening, to be surprised and shot. This, however, is not a regular habit as with the blackcocks, but rather an exceptional case.

Standing, partially concealed by my horse, near one of these eras, on one occasion a band of Little Bustards passed so near and in such close order that three brace fell to the two barrels. On another memorable autumn afternoon I bagged, under similar conditions, eight of these bustards, besides four of the larger kind, the former all shot as they flew in at dusk towards an open threshing-ground.

The sportsman on the plains is frequently apprised of a passing band of Little Bustards by the peculiar hissing sound made by their wings in flight, different from that of any other bird, but most resembling the rustle of the Golden-eye; but they are rarely so confiding as to pass within shot. The birds seen in the markets are, however, obtained, in nine cases out of ten, at such chance moments.

On a bright November forenoon we embarked from the weed-girt jetty at Bonanza on a big falucha, manned by four sun-bronzed watermen, and in whose spacious storage lay a pile of sporting impedimenta—guns and rifles, baggage, bedding, and the rest.

We were a party of eight—English and Spanish nationalities equally represented—and old acquaintances, associated in many branches of sport. All had come some distance to the rendezvous—some from Seville and Madrid, two from England—to pass a couple of weeks at the historic preserves of Southern Spain, the Coto de Doña Ana. As the swarthy crew let fall their oars into the tide of Guadalquivir, all eyes turned eagerly to the opposite shores, so full of pleasant reminiscences. 'Tis pleasant, too, to know that as the moorings are cast loose we lose touch of the world and its civilization; we leave behind us post and telegram, thought and care, and, with them, perhaps, some measure of ease and luxury—from all these things the broad flood of Bœtis and leagues of trackless waste will now divide us; we are free to revert to primæval savagery, and we greatly rejoice thereat. Amidst these happier thoughts arose just a qualm of speculation as to whether all the multifarious arrangements incidental to such campaigns had been duly fulfilled, and if we should find our people, horses and mules, awaiting us at the appointed tryst.

Around the pile of logs cheerily blazing in the spacious hearth we gather, relieved to find that all the transport and commissariat arrangements had this time come off without a hitch—no slight matter where everything, from a lemon or a hen's egg to a portable bath, from a match to a mattress, has to be transported on mule-back the whole forty miles of rough country (and river) we had just travelled. Our Galician cook and steward, half sportsman, half Bohemian, had come on two days in advance, and strangers were agreeably surprised to find anything to eat—except perhaps stewed lynx or fricasseed flamingo—in this outer wilderness. Then, as we gathered round the blazing hearth, enjoying such coffee and breva cigars as are only combined in Spain, the keepers come in with their reports—keepers of a different type to British ideals, Bartolo, Larrios, and Manolo, copper-skinned, pelt-clad and unkempt, and Trujillo, the guarda mayor, who enters with lordly salaam, his jacket hung on one great shoulder as on a peg—a picture of Cervantes' Quixote. These are four of the ten keepers who, from father to son, have occupied the posts on the property for generations.

After this beat, shot-cartridges were substituted for ball, and for the rest of that day and several following ones caza menor was the order of the day. The system of small-game shooting adopted on these plains combines both walking up and driving at the same time, and requires a few words of description. It must be borne in mind that we always have on one side of us—towards the north and east—the marisma, practically at this season an inland sea, and upon this circumstance the system is based. The plan of campaign consists in driving the game down upon the marisma; a line of eight, ten or twelve guns each 100 or 150 yards apart, and with several beaters placed in the interval, is formed at a distance of three or four miles inland. This line occupies upwards of a mile in length, and as it advances towards the marisma, obviously encloses whatever game may be concealed in three or four square miles of country, the greater part of which (the game) has a fair chance of coming in the way of one point or another of the line of guns. Some care is needed to preserve the formation of the beat, which is done by mounted keepers, who also see that the "points" or wings are thrown slightly in advance.

The density of the scrub varies also: sometimes for a short distance one has to push through thickets where every step is a struggle with hard dried cistus stems, and where broken ground, ravines and thorny jungle make perspiration flow, and ill conduce to taking those smart chances that offer overhead at inopportune moments.

Gradually, as the line approaches the flat shores of the marisma, the "driving" shots increase in number and the cry of pájaro, the Spanish equivalent to "mark over," becomes incessant. Pajaró, pajaró, the magic word comes borne on the breeze from right and left, dwelt on by the Andaluz till the final "ó" dies away in prolonged cadence; and there, far away ahead, appear sundry dark specks in the sky, rapidly growing in size as the redlegs wheel back towards the spot where we crouch behind a lentiscus. Now they are overhead, for two brief seconds within reach of a well-directed aim—then, in happy moments, a brace of redlegs will bounce on the bents.

Here every little thicket or clump of brushwood holds some of the birds that have been driven forward, and even on the barest ground some have found refuge behind a tuft of grass or palmetto. Everywhere partridges start up from the slightest covert, and one sees them running forward ere they rise. But the hottest work occurs in the belt of rush and reed—in the juncos that border the marisma. The finale is short, but it is sweet, and the man who has stopped handsomely the rocketers that sped to his lot has a reputation ready made.

Such is, in outline, the system of an avero, several of which can be carried out on a winter's day.

After two or three days with the small game, it was decided to give the deer a turn. The sun shone brightly as we rode out to the ground selected for the day's sport, and a gentle breeze blew from a favourable direction. The first beat, nevertheless, proved blank—only hinds passing through the line, which served to give us, for a moment, a flutter of excitement as they crashed through the under-wood, and dashed away at redoubled speed. On the next drive several stags were seen—some broke back, but three ran the gauntlet of our line at different points, offering good opportunities to three of our guns, two of which, however, were not accepted. The third hart was stopped in the midst of a last bound by a clean rifle-shot at long range—a fine head of twelve tines.

After this beat rifles were exchanged for smooth-bores, a line formed, and we shot our way back to the lodge, securing some twenty brace of partridge and other small game, besides another stag, which, all too drowsy, had permitted our line to advance too near ere he sprang from his lair. Shot was quickly exchanged for ball, and as the hart ran broadside on and within one hundred yards of two guns, he was struck in three places, and the dogs soon pulled him down. This was a very old beast, but only carried eight points, the "bay" antlers being entirely wanting, and the double-tops curiously bent inwards. This small-game beat having brought us to the verge of the marisma, we finished a successful day's sport with an hour's flight-shooting, during which five geese and nearly fifty teal and wigeon were brought to bag. The day's results were thus:—4 stags, 2 boar and a lynx, 23½ brace small game, and 54 head of wildfowl.

This day again proved a lucky one—several deer and a lynx, besides minor game, being piled on the panniers of the carrier-ponies before night. The lynx was a specially handsome beast, an old male with bushy whiskers, his tawny pelt boldly splashed with dark spots. He was killed by a rifle-ball when going at top speed across a glade. The writer's mind that evening was, nevertheless, tinged with regret. While posted as "point-gun," amidst some lovely but very broken forest ground at a remote corral, I observed an object move slightly among some young pine-scrub in a hollow on my front. It was the antlers of a stag; and soon, by the forest of ivory tips, I perceived they belonged to a hart of no ordinary degree. Presently the owner emerged from the covert and for several seconds stood, fully exposed, at 100 yards, an enormous beast, looking as black as coal against a background of dead yellow flags. He presented a certain shot; but, alas! was still within the beat; and though the stag stood in a slight hollow where rising ground behind rendered the shot perfectly safe, I hesitated to break the rules, and the chance was lost—the grand beast going away wide to the right. The vision of that stag, with his broad and branching head and unnumbered points, his massive frame and glossy coat, haunted me awake and asleep that night and for many another.

There is a degree of mental gratification in occasionally "pulling off" shots of this kind—that is, in killing clean with ball a large animal in full career, and at long distance—that must probably be experienced to be appreciated. And, after all, how much is due to the marvellous precision and power of modern sporting weapons! This stag carried sixteen points, and his horns measured along the curve 32 inches, with a sweep of 28 inches. In weight he probably exceeded any we have shot on the Spanish plains, and his rich velvety pile was conspicuously dark and glossy.

As soon as it was over, we went eagerly to examine the tracks of the big stag. Yes! blood was there sure enough—whole streams of it; but the verdict of the guardas was prompt and emphatic—"that stag you will never get. See! the blood is all at one side. The bullet has merely grazed his off-flank, causing a flesh-wound which bleeds much, but does no vital harm." They were right. Impelled by shame and self-reproach, we followed the trail for miles; but though we twice sighted our quarry afar, it was evident he had sustained no serious injury, and as he headed for a wild region where leagues of jungle afforded secure refuge, we were fain, at dusk, to acknowledge defeat, and to leave him in peace.

Now for the moral—though perhaps it hardly needs pointing. Never attempt to sketch, or otherwise play the fool, when every energy should be concentrated on the sport in hand. One thing well done is as much as poor mortals are capable of at one time.