We had cherished the hope of meeting with ptarmigan and other alpine forms in these high sierras, especially during our earlier expeditions after ibex. We are satisfied that ptarmigan at least do not exist, having seen no trace of them at any point; but we never saw the snow-finch either, and it is reported to exist in numbers.

Oh! the wearying monotony of that long down-grade ride—the infinity of vast subrounded mountains, all alike, all ugly, all sprinkled rather than clad with low gorse and spiky broom, like millions of pincushions with all points outwards. Then the shale—the very earth seemed disintegrated. Red shale and blue, cinder-grey and lemon-yellow; some schistose and sparkling, the bulk dull and dead. Here and there, amid oceans of friable detritus, stand out great rocks of more durable substance—solitary pinnacles, towers and turrets of fantastic form. Six hours of this ere we reach the Vega of Granada.

Ornithology

For ornithologists the following notes on birds observed and not already mentioned may here be inserted:—

Gregorio sat silent and seemed impressed; but Caraballo interjected: “Why waste time? These people are not concerned (entrometidos) in such matters.” True; but Gregorio had appeared interested and intelligent? “Si! but when folk spent lonely lives among the mountains and never see but a petty hill-village once or twice a year, then intelligence goes to sleep (se pone dormido).” Certainly five minutes later they were both hammering away again at the customary small-talk of the by-ways.

(1) The Albufera

FOR centuries this marine lagoon—the largest sheet of water in Spain—has, along with the forests and wastes that formerly adjoined it, been a stronghold of wild animal-life. As early as the thirteenth century King James I., after wresting the Kingdom of Valencia from the Moors, and dividing its castles and estates among his nobles and generals, selected, with shrewd appreciation, the Albufera for his personal share of the spoils of war. For not only did the great lake with its wild appanages form a truly regal hunting-domain, but the broad lands intervening between the Grao of Valencia, Cullera, and the lake-shores possessed a fabled fertility.

For six centuries the lands and waters of Albufera belonged to the Spanish Crown. Though by edict in A.D. 1250 James I. granted free public rights of fishing (reserving, however, one-fifth of the catch for royal use), yet both he and succeeding monarchs ever continued to extend and improve the amenities of the Crown Patrimony.

Lying about seven miles south-east of Valencia, the lake has a water-area some fourteen miles long by six or seven wide, its circumference being over nine leagues. On the south, it is shut off from the Mediterranean by a strip of pine-clad dunes—the deep green foliage broken in pleasing contrast by intervals of bare sand, forming splashes of gold amidst dark verdure. On all other sides the limits of the lake are marked by yellow reeds which fringe its shores.

Its waters, dotted with the white sails of faluchos, present the appearance of a small sea, a resemblance which is accentuated in stormy weather by the height of the waves.

The lake connects by canals with various adjacent villages; while two canals (Perillo and Perillonet) communicate with the sea, though their mouths are blocked by locks. These locks are closed each year from November 1 till January 1—thereby retaining the whole of the river-waters from inland, in order to raise the interior water-level and so flood the surrounding rice-fields.

This artificial inundation—by disseminating alluvial matter brought down by autumnal rains over the adjacent lands—has greatly extended the area of rice-cultivation, and, of course, equally reduced the original water-surface. The result has been, nevertheless, immensely to augment the enormous numbers of wildfowl which had always made the Albufera their winter home; for no food is so attractive to ducks as rice, while, despite its reduction, the water-area is yet ample.

Needless to add, neither method would nowadays serve to outwit twentieth-century wildfowl.

By the beginning of last century (about 1830), owing to the destruction of forests and reclamation of land for grazing or rice-cultivation, the bigger game had already disappeared; but the flights of winter wildfowl actually increased in proportion to the extended area of rice.

The Albufera continued to be the property of the Crown of Spain from 1250 till May 12, 1865, when the Cortes decreed, and Queen Isabella II. confirmed, its transference to the State.

At the present day the shooting on Albufera is conducted on purely commercial and up-to-date principles. The whole area is mapped out into sections like a chessboard, and each considerable gun-post (or replaza, as it is called) is sold by auction.

These specially selected replazas number thirty, and are sold for the entire season, the prices varying from £150 for No. 1 down to about £6 for No. 30.

These thirty “reserved stalls” having been disposed of in public competition, the remaining mid-water positions (for which the charge is a dollar or two per day) are then apportioned by drawing lots. Finally, licences are issued at a few pesetas to shoot from the foreshores or from small launches stationed among the reeds at specified spots, but which the licensee must not quit during the shooting.

The sum that finally filtered through to the State during forty years varied between 7500 and 23,000 pesetas (say £300 to £900), a record price being obtained in 1868, namely, 40,000 pesetas. The municipality of Valencia is seeking to obtain the cession of the Albufera from the State.

Regular fixed shoots take place every Saturday throughout the season, with, however, certain small exceptions, aimed partly at securing to the fowl a period of rest and quiet on their first arrival, and partly due to the festivals of St. Martin and St. Catherine being public days and free to all.

The species of ducks obtained on Albufera do not differ from those at Daimiel. On these deeper waters pochards and the various diving-ducks are more conspicuous than on the shallower rice-swamps of the Calderería.

(2) The Caldereía

In contrast with the Albufera (and with Daimiel) the Calderería is not a natural lagoon, but simply the artificial inundation of rice-grounds (arrozales), such inundation being necessary for the cultivation of that grain.

The rice-grounds of the Calderería belong to the three adjacent communes of Sueca, Cullera, and Sollana—held in a joint peasant-proprietorship. The flooding of the arrozales was commenced in 1850, the original object being the cultivation of rice, combined with the taking of wildfowl in nets (paranses). It was, however, early seen that the enormous quantities of wild-ducks attracted to the spot were of almost equal value with the grain-crop, and the fame of the Calderería attracted troops of sportsmen from all parts of Spain. This influx, for some years, the local authorities endeavoured to check, with a view to securing the sport for local residents—who, by the way, wanted to enjoy this good thing at the price of a dollar a year! In 1880 it was decided to put up to auction the different shooting-posts, or replazas, without any restriction.

The whole of the arrozales are accordingly divided into defined sections called replazas, each perhaps 500 or 600 yards square, forming roughly, as it were, a gigantic chessboard, though the various replazas are quite irregular in shape and size. These are sold by public auction at a fixed date. The best positions realise as much as, say, £80 to £100. A large rental is thus obtained yearly, some villages receiving as much as 6000 dollars.

The first shoot of the year takes place about the date just named, November 15, and is repeated every eighth day thereafter up to the middle of January, when the rice-grounds are run dry.

Upon the completion of the auction sales there is announced a definite day and hour at which (and at which only) the lessor is permitted to enter the rice-grounds, in order to prepare his shelter. Should he omit or neglect this opportunity, he is not afterwards allowed to touch it until the actual morning of the shooting.

Since there grows on rice-grounds no natural cover whatever, it is essential to prepare some form of screen or shelter, and the reeds or sedges required for the purpose must be brought from elsewhere.

Across each replaza, or conceded space, is erected a double line of screens, two yards apart and carefully masked by a fringe of reeds or rice-stalks. In the intervening “lane” are fixed two or more sunken tubs wherein the shooters can sit concealed.

Hardly has midnight struck on that eventful morn than the world is amove. Highways and byways, on land and water, are crowded by mobilising forces; across the dark waters move forth whole squadrons of boats, punts and launches, each one steering a course towards some far-away replaza. Absolute silence reigns. No lights are allowed and no sound shocks the mystery of night save the creaking of punt-pole or lapping of wave—no human sound, that is, for “the night is filled with music”; the pall overhead, the unseen wastes on every side are vocal with wildfowl cries. Continuously the still air is rent and cleft by the rush of myriad pinions. From right and left, before and behind, pass hurrying hosts, their violent flight resonant as the wash of an angry sea. But never a shot is fired. That is against the rules.

Then a second signal indicates that the “pick-up” may begin—up to that moment not a gunner is permitted to leave his place. This gathering of the game, stopping cripples, etc., induces a short renewal of the fusillade; but soon all is silent once more, and at three o’clock a third signal rings out, and at once every sportsman must quit the shooting-ground.

Besides the lessees of the auction-sold puestos (many of whom come from Madrid and distant parts of Spain), there foregather on these occasions all the local gunners; and far away beyond those sacred areas secured by purchase there form up league-long lines of fowlers by the distant shore; so that, between the private and privileged puestos and the free public lines outside, there may assemble in all some 3000 gunners. Hence these tiradas partake of the character of a popular festival. Yet in spite of such numbers there is not the slightest confusion or danger, so perfect are the rules and so scrupulously are they observed.

With so many guns scattered over wide areas no precise record of the exact numbers secured are possible; but, according to the estimates of those best calculated to judge, as many as 22,000 to 23,000 head (ducks and coots) are obtained in a single morning.

The records of individual guns in the best replazas run from 100 to 200 ducks gathered, and occasionally exceed those figures.

At the first shoot of the year fully 25 per cent of the spoil are coots; but at the later shoots ducks are obtained in greater proportion, as coots then quit the rice-grounds. These later shoots do not produce quite such stupendous totals; but still immense numbers are bagged—ten or twelve thousand in a morning.

As the majority of purchasers come from a distance and usually only remain for one, or perhaps two, of the fixed shooting days, such prices as £80 to £100 represent a fairly stiff rent.

As individual instances; from a replaza that cost 900 pesetas (say £40), and which was the ninth in point of price that year, one gun fired 700 cartridges in a single morning.

The best replaza—at least the most expensive (it cost 1500 pesetas)—was tenanted last winter by friends from whose experiences, not too encouraging, we gather: At the first shoot (November 13) the post was occupied by a single gun, who, after firing 400 shots, was compelled to desist owing to injury to his shoulder. “I believe,” he writes, “I might have fired 1500 cartridges had I continued all day, but was obliged to leave early. The boatmen had then gathered ninety—sixty ducks, thirty coot—and expected to recover more.”

On November 28 the post was occupied by three guns: “No day for duck, a blazing sun so hot that the reflection from the water blistered our faces. The ducks mounted up high in air and mostly cleared early in the proceedings, though some were attracted by our 100 decoys. We killed ninety-six, mostly wigeon and pochard, a few mallard and teal, besides twenty snipe. The desideratum is a really rough day, but that at Valencia is past praying for.”

HARDLY will one enter a village posada or a peasant’s lonely cot without observing one inevitable sign. Among the simple adornments of the whitewashed wall and as an integral item thereof hangs a caged redleg. And from the rafters above will be slung an antediluvian fowling-piece, probably a converted “flinter,” bearing upon its rusty single barrel some such inscription—inset in gold characters—as, “Antequera, 1843.” These two articles, along with a cork-stoppered powder-horn and battered leathern shot-belt, constitute the stock-in-trade and most cherished treasures of our rustic friend, the Spanish cazador. Possibly he also possesses a pachón, or heavily built native pointer; but the dog is chiefly used to find ground-game or quail, since the redleg, ever alert and swift of foot, defies all pottering pursuit. Hence the reclamo, or call-bird, is almost universally preferred for that purpose.

Red-legged partridges abound throughout the length and breadth of wilder Spain—not, as at home, on the open corn-lands, but amidst the interminable scrub and brushwood of the hills and dales, on the moory wastes, and palmetto-clad prairie. On the latter hares, quail, and lesser bustard vary the game.

That the race of redlegs should have survived it all—year in and year out—bespeaks a wondrous fecundity, and has inspired new-born ideas of “preservation,” which have been initiated in Spain with marked success. To this subject we refer later.

Though we have ourselves (maybe from “insular prejudice”) systematically refused to see the reclamo work his treacherous rôle, yet many Spanish sportsmen are enthusiastic over the system, which they describe as una faena muy interesante, and are as proud of their call-birds as we of our setters. The reclamos may be of either sex. The cock-partridges become past-masters of the art of calling up their wild rivals from afar; and by a softer note the wild hen is also lured to her doom—for the dual influences of love and war are both called into play. The male hears the defiant challenge of battle and, all aflame, hurries by alternative flights and runs to seek the unseen challenger. As distance lessens the fire of each taunt increases, and, blind with passion, the luckless champion dashes on to that fatal opening where he is aligned by barrels peeping from the thicket. The female, with more tender purpose, also draws near—the seductive love-note entices; but, oh! the wooing o’t—a few pellets of lead end that idyll. It is then—when either rival or lover, it matters not which, lies low in death alongside his cage—that the well-constituted reclamo shows his fibre. So overcome with savage joy, the narrow cage will scarce contain him as he bursts into exultant pæons of victory. On the other hand, sullen disappointment is exhibited by the decoy when his exploit has only resulted in a missed shot.

In the spring the female call-note is more effective than that of the male.

Well-trained reclamos may be worth anything from £2 up to £10. Recently a yearly licence of ten shillings per bird has been levied. This has either reduced their numbers, or perhaps caused them to be kept more secretly. Formerly a cicada in a tiny cage and a reclamo in its conical prison were contiguous objects in almost every doorway.

The quail, though extremely abundant at its passage-seasons (when in September the Levante, or S.E. wind, blows for days together, blocking their transit to Africa, Andalucia is crammed with accumulated quails), yet represents but a small morsel in a culinary sense, and is swift of wing to boot. Neither of these attributes commend its pursuit to our friend with the rusty single-barrel; and similar reasons bear, with increased force, on the case of snipe. These game-birds are left severely alone—that is, with the gun.

The conditions above indicated prevail over a vast proportion of rural Spain, which thus presents small attraction to wandering gunner, however humble his ideals.

There are other regions where the landowners, though in no sense “preserving,” yet prohibit free entry on their properties owing to damage done—such as disturbing stock, stampeding cattle on to cultivation in a land where no fences exist, and so on. Naturally such ground carries more game, and subject to permission being received, fair and sometimes excellent sport is attainable. Thus, on one such property the tangled woods of wild olive abound with woodcock, though difficulties are presented by the impenetrable character of the briar-bound thickets. Were “rides” cut and clearings enlarged quite large bags of woodcock might be secured. The rough scrubby hills adjoining carry a fair stock of partridge, and we have often killed forty or fifty snipe in the marshy valleys that intervene. The following will serve as an example of three consecutive days’ shooting on such unpreserved ground (two guns—S. D. and B. F. B.):—

Three days in February on similar ground, but in an unfavourable season, yielded 79 snipe, 5 woodcock, 19 golden plovers, 3 lesser bustard, a hare, and a few sundries.

Lebrija, December 1897.—Two Guns, C. D. W. and B. F. B. (Half-day)
117 snipe (mostly driven)

Lebrija, November 16, 1904.—Same Two Guns
112 snipe, 2 mallard, 1 curlew

Casas Viejas, November 19, 1906.—Three Guns (S. D., C. D. W., and B. F. B.)
123 snipe, 1 mallard, 5 teal

Partridge-Shooting

Passing from the use of the reclamo, of which we have no personal experience, we turn to the system practised in the Coto Doñana. Here we always have the marisma bordering, as an inland sea, our northern frontage. Upon that fact the system known as “averando” is based.

A line of six or eight guns, with sufficient beaters between, and mounted keepers on either flank (the whole extending over, say, half-a-mile of front), is formed up at a distance of a mile or two inland from the marisma. On advancing, with the wings thrown forward, and mounted men skirmishing ahead, a space comprising hundreds of acres of scrub is thus enclosed. The partridge, running forward among the cistus or rising far beyond gunshot, are gradually pushed down towards the water; then, as the advancing line approaches the marisma, with the belts of rush and sedge that border it, the work begins. The game, unwilling to face the water, perforce come swinging back over the shooting-line. Naturally on seeing encompassing danger in full view behind and barring their retreat, the partridge spin up heavenwards—higher and yet higher, till they finally pass over the guns at a height and speed and with a pronounced curve that ensures the maximum of difficulty in every shot offered.

In this final stage of the operation grow cork-oaks whose bulk and evergreen foliage add further complexity for the gunner.

It illustrates the exertions made by the partridges to attain an altitude and a speed sufficient to carry them safely over the clearly-seen danger below, that should a bird which has succeeded in thus running the gauntlet happen to be found after the beat is over, it will often be too exhausted to rise again. Such tired birds are often caught by the dogs.

As many as six or eight averos, as they are termed, may be carried out during a winter’s day. The walking in places is apt to be rough, through jungle and bush—chiefly cistus and rosemary, but intermixed with tree-heaths, brooms, and gorse—intercepted with stretches of water which must be waded without wincing, for it is essential that each man (gun or beater) maintains correctly his allotted position in the advance.

Forty or fifty brace represent average days; though it is fair to add that they are but few who fully avail the fleeting opportunities at those back-swerving dots in the sky.

Rabbits

The cistus plains abound with rabbits. One sees them by scores moving ahead, but just beyond gunshot range, which they calculate to a nicety. Others dart from underfoot to disappear in an instant in the cover. Few are shot while walking; but some pretty sport is obtainable by short drives, say a quarter-mile. The line of keepers and beaters ride round to windward, encircling some well-stocked bush; then slowly and noisily, with frequent halts, advance down-wind—the rabbit is as susceptible of scent as a deer. Meanwhile the dogs are having a rare time of it hustling the bunnies forward. The guns are placed each to command some clear spot, for where scrub grows thick nothing can be seen. A momentary glimpse is all one gets, and snap-shooting essential. The most favourable spots are where a strip of open ground lies immediately behind the guns. The rabbits fairly fly this, a dozen at a time, and at speed that suggests some one having set fire to their tails.

Hares (Lepus mediterraneus), common all over Spain, are rather more numerous in the marisma than on the drier grounds. They have indeed developed semi-aquatic habits, in times of flood swimming freely from island to island and making arboreal “forms” in the half-submerged samphire-bush. Should the whole become submerged, the hares betake themselves to the main shore, and on such occasions, with two guns, we have shot a dozen or so on a drive. These small Spanish hares are marvellously fleet of foot, especially when an almost equally fleet-footed podenco is in full chase over ground as flat and bare as a bowling-green.

In these hares the females are larger and greyer in colour than the males. Their irides are yellow, with a small pupil, whereas in the male the eye is hazel and the pupil large. The fur of the latter is bright chestnut in hue, especially on hind-quarters and legs, which frequently show irregular splashes of white. The lower parts are purest white, and along the clean-cut line of demarcation the colour contrasts are the strongest. Long film-like hairs grow far beyond the ordinary fur on their bodies, and the tails are longer and carried higher than in our British species.

Weights of Spanish Rabbits (in Couples)

These rabbits differ from the home-breed not only in their smaller size, but in the colder grey of their fur and large transparent ears.

On some great Sporting Estates of Spain

Game-preservation, in the stricter sense in which it is practised in England, was unknown in Spain till within our own earlier days. But now many great estates yield bags of partridge that may challenge comparison with results obtained elsewhere.

Whether those results equal the best of the crack partridge-manors in England or not we do not inquire. It is immaterial and irrelevant. No comparison is either desirable or possible where natural conditions and difficulties differ fundamentally. But the result at least throws a ray of reflected light upon the energy and capacity of the Spanish gamekeeper, who, under extraordinary difficulties, has aided and enabled his employers to produce conditions which only a few years ago would have appeared impossible. It should be added that these estates which now realise surprising results have, in most instances, belonged to the same owners during generations, though not till towards the end of last century was any special care bestowed upon the game.

The estate of Mudéla, in La Mancha, the property of the Marquis de Mudéla, Count of Valdelagrana, stands unrivalled in a sporting sense. Its extent is approximately 80,000 acres, and the whole abounds with red-legged partridge, rabbits, and hares. A dozen consecutive driving-days can be enjoyed, each on fresh ground, and 1000 partridges are often here secured by seven guns, driving, in a day.

There is here quite a small proportion of corn-land or tillage, the greater portion consisting of the rough pasturage, interspersed with patches of scattered brush and palmetto, which is characteristic of southern Spain.

Next to Mudéla, the most celebrated sporting properties include those of Lachár and Tajarja, both in the province of Granada, and belonging to the Duke of San Pedro de Galatino; Trasmulas in the same province belonging to the Conde de Agrela, and Ventosilla, the property of the Duke of Santona in the province of Toledo. There should also be named Daranézas in the last-named province, the Marquis de la Torrecilla; and Daramezán (Toledo), the Marquis de Alcanices.

At Malpica in Toledo, the estate of the Duke of Arión, there were killed, on the occasion of a visit of King Alfonso XIII., a total in one day of 1655 head (partridges, hares, and rabbits), of which His Majesty was credited with 600.

We extract the following from the Madrid newspaper La Epoca, January 22, 1908:—

WE have no British equivalent for this generic term, applied in Spain to a group of creatures, chiefly belonging to the canine, feline, and viverrine families, that deserve a chapter to themselves. The Spanish word Alimañas includes the lynxes and wild-cats, foxes, mongoose, genets, badgers, otters, and such like. It might therefore be rendered as “vermin,” but surely only in the benevolent sense—as it were, a term of endearment. We have preferred the expression “minor beasts of chase,” though it may be objected that such are not, in fact, beasts of chase. We reply that hardly any wild animals are harder to secure in fair contest or more capable of testing the venatic resource of the hunter.

For these animals are beasts-of-prey, and that fact alone implies nothing less than that in their very nature and life-habits they must be more cunning, more astute, than those other creatures (mostly game) on which they are ordained to subsist. Moreover, being nocturnals, their senses of sight, scent, and hearing all far exceed our own, and they possess the enormous advantage that they see equally well in the dark.

Wild Spain, with her 56 per cent of desert or sparsely peopled regions, is a paradise for predatory creatures—alike the furred and the feathered—and alimañas abound whether in the bush and scrub of her torrid plains, or amid the heavier jungle of her mountain-ranges.

Many unconventional days have the authors enjoyed in express pursuit of these keen-eyed creatures—call them vermin if you will. There are four methods which we have found effective:

1. Short drives of individual jungles where sufficient open spaces occur to leeward to enable the game to be seen.

2. Long drives of extensive jungles, converging on guns placed at points that either command the probable lines of retreat, or cover some other favourite resort wherein the quarry is likely to seek refuge.

3. Calling—in Spanish, chillando.

4. Watching at dawn or dusk, either with or without a “drag.”

1. The first plan is, of course, the simplest; but it must be borne in mind that this is essentially close-quarters’ work—hence the utmost silence is necessary. Horses must be picketed at least a mile back, for the clank of hoof on rock or the clashing of the bucket-like Spanish stirrups in bush will awaken even a dormouse. All proceed on foot; and the whole plan having been arranged beforehand, not a word need now be spoken, each gun taking his allotted place in silence. Guns may be as far as 100 yards apart (since mould-shot is effective up to nearly that range) and each man should station himself looking into the beat, so as to command the intervening “opens,” while himself absolutely concealed and still as a stone god, since he is now competing with some of the keenest eyes on earth. All the cats, moreover, come on so stealthily, making good their advance yard by yard, that quite possibly a great tawny lynx may be coolly surveying your position ere your eye has caught the slightest movement ahead.

Yonder goes a fox, slowly trotting along below the crest, in his self-sufficient, nonchalant style. His upstanding fur, long bushy brush, and swollen neck appear to double his bulk and lend him quite an imposing figure. But let a rifle-ball sing past his ears or dash up a cloud of the sand below—what a transformation! One hardly now recognises the long lean streak that whips up and over the ridge.

A handsome trophy is the Spanish lynx, especially those more brightly coloured examples sparsely spotted with big black splotches arranged, more or less, in interrupted lines. The ear-tufts—indeed in adults the extreme tips of the ears themselves—point inwards and backwards; and the narrow irides are pale yellow (between lemon and hazel), the pupil being full, round, and black, nearly filling the circle. In the wild-cat the pupil is a thin upright, set in a cruel pale-green iris.

We have tried FIRE as a means of securing the smaller alimañas, such as mongoose, but it is seldom a thicket or mancha can be so completely isolated as to leave no line of escape. The animals, moreover, are astute enough to retire under cover of the clouds of smoke that roll away to leeward.

Such drives necessarily occupy more time; moreover, the precise lines of entry along which game may approach are less restricted—hence follows an even greater demand on that vigilance already emphasised. But to the hunter the mental gratification, the sense of dominion achieved, is ample reward when his deep-laid plans succeed and when along one or more of his ambushed lines the cunning carnivorae pursue an unsuspecting course.

Nature herself may assist by signs which set the expectant hunter yet more instantly alert. A distant kite suddenly swerving or checking its flight has seen something. The chattering of a band of magpies may only mean that they have struck a “find,” say a dead rabbit—tacitus pasci si posset corvus, etc. But it may easily indicate a moving nocturnal, and such signs should never be ignored. Similarly a covey of partridges springing with continued cackling is a certain token of the presence of an enemy; while a terrified-looking rabbit, with staring eye and ears laid back, means that an interview is then instantly impending.

It may be necessary (as where a desert-stretch flanks the beat) to place “stops” far outside. These are as important as in a grouse-drive, but quite tenfold more difficult to array.

In these more extensive operations the lynx, in evading the guns, is sometimes intercepted by the advancing pack behind. Then, if by luck the cat can be forced into the open, she goes off at fine speed in great bounds, as a leopard covers the veld, and (the horses in this case being picketed close by) may sometimes be “tree’d” or run to bay in some distant thicket. In that case the assistance of the hunters is needed, for a lynx at bay will hold-up a whole pack of podencos, sitting erect on her haunches with her back to the bush and dealing half-arm blows with lightning speed. These podencos, it should be explained, are not intended to close, since all high-couraged dogs, we find, meet a speedy death from the tusks of wild-boars.

When pressed in the open, we have seen a lynx deliberately pass through deep water that lay in her line of flight.

It is upon this fact that the system of calling, or, in Spanish, chillando, is based. The instrument is simple. A crab’s claw, or the green bark of a two-inch twig slipped off its stalk, will, in the lips of an adept, produce just such a cry of cunicular distress. Armed with this, and observing the wind, one takes post concealed by bush but commanding some open glade in front. The most favourable time is dawn and dusk—the latter for choice, since then predatory animals are waking up hungry. The first “call” by our Spanish companion almost startles by its lifelike verisimilitude. At short intervals these ringing distress-signals resound through the silent bush; if no response follows, we try another spot. First, a distant kite or buzzard, hearing the call, comes wheeling this way, but naturally the birds-of-prey from their lofty point of view detect the human presence and pursue their quest elsewhere. The rabbits themselves, from some inexplicable cause, are among the first to respond.

Within that opposite wall of jungle you detect a furtive movement; presently with jerky, spasmodic gait a rabbit darts out; it sits trembling with staring eyes and ears laid aback; another rolls over on its side and performs strange antics as though under hypnotic influence. In two minutes you have a séance of mesmerised rabbits.

In this case, too, we had had notice in advance by the noisy rising of a pair of partridges sixty yards away in the bush. That cat scaled 12½ lbs. dead-weight.

All the beasts-of-prey can be secured in this manner. February is their pairing-season; but the best time for “calling” is a month or so later—in March and April—when young rabbits appear and when the alimañas themselves have their litters to feed.

Where stretches of open country border or intersect jungle, or lie between the nocturnal hunting-grounds of carnivorae and the thickets where they lie-up by day, there one may enjoy hours of intense interest in watching what passes under the moon. In the Coto Doñana we have many such spots, some within an hour or two’s ride of our shooting-lodges. Here, when the moon shines full, and the soft south wind blows towards the dark leagues of cistus and tree-heath behind us, we line-out three or four guns, each looking outwards across glittering sand-wastes on his front. There, on smooth expanse, one may detect every moving thing. Those shadowy forms that seem to skim the surface without touching it are stone-curlews, and beyond them is a less mobile object, whose identity none would guess by sight. That is a tortuga, or land-tortoise, tracing its singular double trail. Across the sand passes a bigger shadow—rabbits and the rest all vanish. What was that shadow? A strange growl overhead, and you see it is an eagle-owl that has scattered the ghost-like groups. Now there is something on the far skyline ahead—something that moves and puzzles—four mobile objects that were not there five seconds ago. These prove to be the ears of two hinds; presently the spiky horns of a stag appear behind them, and the trio move slowly across our front, stopping to nibble some tuft of bent.

None of these are what we seek, but as dawn approaches you may (or may not) detect the form of some beast-of-prey making for its lair in the jungle behind you. Foxes, as their habit is, trot straight in; the lynx comes with infinite caution. Should some starveling bush survive a hundred yards out, she may stop, squatting on her haunches, half-hidden in its shade. You can see there is something there, but the distance is just beyond a sure range, and seldom indeed will that cat come nearer. However low and still you have laid the while, she will, by some subtle feline intuition, have gleaned (perhaps half unconsciously even to herself) a sense of danger. When day has dawned, you will find the retiring spoor winding backwards behind some gentle swell that leads to an unseen hollow beyond—and to safety. Truly you agree when the keeper says, “Lynxes see best in the dark.”

Foxes most frequently capture their prey in fair chase, running them down, as shown by the double spoor ending in blood. Lynxes never chase; they kill by stalking, and a crouching spoor ends in a spring. Both these habitually carry away or bury all they do not devour on the spot.

From the end of January onwards (that being the pairing-season) foxes may often be seen abroad by daylight in couples, and in such case, provided they are seen first, are easily brought-up by “calling.” Lynxes never show-up so by daylight, but an hour or two before dawn their weird wailing cries may be heard in the bush from mid-February onwards.

A few such days and nights as these teach that wild Spain cherishes other animals besides the game, to the full as interesting and even more difficult to secure.