(_BY MR. PUNCH'S OWN GROUSE IN THE GUN-ROOM._)
And, next, my gallant young Sportsmen, just sharpen up your attention,
and, if you have ears, prepare to lend them now. Be, in fact,
all ears. At any rate, get yourselves as near as possible to that
desirable condition, for we are going to discuss shooting-lunches, and
all that pertains to them. Think of it! Are not some of your happiest
memories, and your most delightful anticipations, bound up with
the mid-day meal, at which the anxieties and disappointments of the
morning, the birds you missed, the birds that, though they got up in
front of you, were shot by your jealous neighbour, the wiped-eyes,
the hands torn in the thorn-bushes, at which, as I say, all these
are forgotten, when you lay aside your gun, and sit down to your
short repose. Then it is that the talker shines supreme. All the
conversation which may have been broken in upon during the morning by
the necessity for posting yourself at the hot corner, or the grassy
ride, or in the butt, or for polishing off a right and left of
partridges, can then flow free and uninterrupted. Ah, happy moments,
when the bad shot becomes as the good, and all distinctions are
levelled! How well, how gratefully do I remember you! Still, in my
waking fancies, there rises to my nose a savoury odour, telling of
stew or hot-pot, and still the crisp succulence of the jam tartlet
has honour in my memory. Ah, _tempi passati, tempi passati_! But away,
fancy, and to our work, which is to speak of