SHOOTING

The 1st of September is a day more looked forward to by the general

sporting public than any other. August 12th and October 1st may be

eagerly anticipated by the wealthy sportsman, but September 1st is the

day most generally looked forward to. Nor is the reason difficult to

discover. Partridge-shooting is comparatively the cheapest of sports.

So long as vermin is kept down by trapping, and the fields properly

bushed in the season, to prevent the birds being netted, a fair number

are sure to be found. There are few better or more exciting sports than

partridge-driving. People who have never tried and those who have tried

and failed, affect to despise it; but, in spite of all, it is an

excellent sport, if only for the reason that all can join in it. The

old and young, the weak and strong, and even ladies, honour the stands

with their presence; though this cannot be said to add to the accuracy

of the shooting, for partridge-driving arrangements are usually made so

as to arrive at the first set of stands somewhere about eleven. Here

the head-keeper is met, who, after giving directions about watching

particular lines, and begging that gentlemen will not put up their

heads too soon, but keep down and "give the birds a chance," as he

calls it, on the _lucus a non lucendo_ principle, I suppose, mounts his

old horse and trots off after the drivers, receiving, first of all, you

may be sure, some chaff from the youngsters about his horse and his

seat, to which he good-humouredly rejoins that "he hopes they will

shoot better than he can ride."

The party now disperse to their several stands, each one accompanied by

his loader, and, as you stroll down with your old loader, he greatly

amuses you by his observations on the party and shrewd forecast of

their respective powers. In a short time the distant sound of a horn is

heard, which makes your old man break off his stories and reflections

altogether, as he knows it is the signal for the line of drivers to

start; you yourself peer eagerly through the screen, though really

knowing that there is no chance of a shot for a long time yet.

Presently a series of unearthly yells are heard, as some obstinate

covey rises and breaks back over the drivers' heads. And here let me

remark that the arrangement of a successful drive requires a great deal

of forethought and knowledge; the wind and sun must be studied, and

also the habits of the birds. Partridges are thorough Tories, and like

to take the same line that their fathers before them did, so it is

useless to try to drive them far out of it.

Presently, as you are looking through the screen, a dark object comes

into view that appears rather like a bumble bee; in another second you

perceive it is an old cock French partridge, when, just as you are in

the act of firing, down drops the bird, and commences running like a

racehorse. Naturally you bring your gun down, but the old loader

whispers, "Shoot un, sir, shoot un; he be the blarmed old cock, and

mayhap, if you kills un, t'others will be obliged to fly;" so you pot

him, and the cloud of feathers that comes out is wonderful. A novice

would think that it was blown to bits; but the fact is, nothing of the

kind has happened, the cloud being caused by the great thickness of

plumage. It is very curious to shoot one in snow: the stream of

feathers lying on it looks as if a small pillow had been ripped open.

Soon a distant cry of "Mark over!" showing that a covey has risen and

is coming right for the stands, puts every one on the _qui vive_.

Here they come straight for the man on the right, and you feel almost

inclined to envy his chance, when suddenly the covey mount straight up

like so many sky-rockets; your friend, fresh to the sport, has put up

his head just a minute or so too soon, and the birds saw him. Firing a

hasty right and left as they pass over, he is greatly surprised at a

bird falling nearly on the top of him, the fact being that the two he

shot at were clean missed, but one of the hindmost of the covey flew

into the shot. And now the scene begins to be very interesting; the

birds are beginning to run out of the roots on to the large stubble in

front, not by ones and twos, but by twenties at a time, the French

birds of course being first. It is most curious to notice their

dodges--how they run about looking for places to hide in, and when they

discover the least shelter drop down into it at once; but you cannot

spare much attention to them, as the coveys begin to rise thick and

fast, and cries of "Mark over!" are incessant. The work now begins to

be very exciting, and the fusillade kept up reminds one of the

commencement of a general action, so sustained is it. Some of the

younger hands, thoroughly overcome by the excitement of their first

drive, are firing wildly, as if they thought they should not have a

second chance. By way of contrast, look at the man stationed three or

four stands from you, and see the machine-like regularity with which he

knocks the birds over; no flurry of any sort, the gun brought up

easily, the two sharp reports, and a brace of birds tumbling; the empty

piece handed to the loader, and the other gun taken and discharged in

the same cool way with the like unfailing result. Both master and man

are perfect specimens of their kind, the former as a shot and the

latter as a loader. And now, as the drivers get further through the

roots, the hares begin to bolt out, running wildly in every direction,

utterly bewildered at the shouts and yells that greet them. Not many

are shot at except by those who have utterly muffed the birds, and are

anxious to show that they can hit something. Next, as the drivers come

out on to the stubble, the French birds begin to get up by ones and

twos. Many of these get off, for they rise from such queer places,

often close to the stands.

The first drive being over, the head-keeper comes up to see the game

collected, pausing by the stands of those who have been unlucky, and

gravely telling their loaders that they "need not trouble to pick up

their master's birds," as he always sees to that; whereupon very

frequently the occupier tries to explain how the birds twisted or the

sun was in his eyes, or makes one of the thousand excuses that men give

for missing. The game being now collected, the party stroll off to the

next set of stands, and the same thing goes on again, with the

exception that some of the excited sportsmen cool down a little, and,

in consequence, improve in their shooting. Driving is the least

fatiguing of any sport to the shooters, the drivers having to go such

long rounds to their different starting-points that there is not the

least need to hurry from stand to stand, but you can pick your way and

go by the easiest route. The actual shooting, however, is difficult; it

requires skill and coolness to get the exact knack of the thing. I well

remember, after one drive, a man, who really was a remarkably good shot

over dogs or walking up birds, coming to me with an expression of the

greatest disgust on his face, and saying, "I have actually missed eight

shots running!" However, he soon got into the way of it; but at first

you do not discover the pace the birds go at, and are rather bothered

by their coming right at you.

After a morning's driving very good sport can be got in the afternoon

by going out with a couple of steady spaniels after the French

partridges. You will find these birds have hidden themselves in the

most wonderful places, under clods and small lumps of hedge-cuttings,

in tufts of grass, holes by gate-posts; in fact, there is no telling

where they may have got to. A rabbit-hole is a very favourite place; so

if one of your dogs seems inclined to stop and scratch at one, do not

tell your keeper to "call the tiresome beast off," as he is always

after rabbits, for it is ten to one that a Frenchman has taken refuge

there. You will often find that the birds have got down almost to the

end of the hole. However, they give capital sport, as they rise out of

such unexpected places that you must always be ready for a shot.

Besides the sport, it is an excellent way of keeping these "pests"

down; for they really are "pests," driving about the English birds in

the breeding season, and bothering your dogs awfully in the beginning

of the shooting season by their habits of running; indeed, until

driving commences, you hardly ever kill a Frenchman; but this is not

much of a loss, as when they are shot they are not worth eating. One

thing, you can send them away as presents to people who do not know

their merits, and are very much pleased with them on account of their

size and the beauty of their plumage, doubtless putting down their

hardness and want of flavour to their cook!

But partridge-shooting _par excellence_ is over dogs. It is a treat

indeed to see a brace of well-broken pointers or setters at work: the

speed with which they quarter their ground, and yet their perfect

steadiness; to see the dog that finds the game stop dead in his gallop,

limbs all rigid, as if he was turned into stone, ears pricked and eyes

almost starting out of his head with excitement; then his companion

backing steadily, the attitude the same, but no eagerness shown; the

rapid shots, and the dogs both down in an instant,--all this is

delightful to witness, but is very seldom seen now-a-days. After the

first week dogs are very little use, the birds will not lie to them;

high farming, with its machine-cut stubbles, clean ploughs, and

widely-drilled root-crops, has almost abolished shooting over dogs. The

birds will not wait on the bare stubbles, and if you get them into

roots, the rattle of the leaves when the dogs are at work is a signal

for their flight. The only chance is where seeds have been sown in

barley; then the reaping-machine cannot be set very low or it clogs,

and in this there is fair lying; but as for the fine stubbles knee-high

that our fathers enjoyed, and the broadcast turnips--why, they have

gone, and pointers and setters have, alas, nearly disappeared with

them.

When the birds have become so wild that they will not lie to the dogs

at all, the best and most sportsmanlike way is to walk them up; but to

do this with any success requires a man to be in excellent training.

Walking over fallows deeply ploughed by steam-power is no joke, and the

birds invariably select these. Your plan is to have about four guns and

five keepers or beaters, and take the fields in line, of course driving

in the direction of any pieces of cole-seed, mustard, or roots that you

may have on your ground; for when once the birds get into these,

particularly into cole-seed, they will remain the rest of the day. It

is surprising how many are bagged when walking: sometimes the coveys

seem bothered by the line of men, and will rise within an easy shot;

but they often seem to know by some sort of intuition the bad shot of

the party, and will allow him to get fairly into the middle of them,

when they rise with a rush, and fly off none the worse for his too

hurried shots.

In this sport there is not half the firing to be heard which there is

in "driving;" but the deadly single shot or the steady double is heard

pretty regularly, and the bag at the end of the day is usually heavier.

You commonly find that a very fair bag is made before entering the

cole-seed or roots where the coveys have principally gone; but when

this cover is entered, unless very unlucky, you may fairly reckon on

the bag being doubled, for the birds cannot run much, and are forced to

rise fairly, so that even a moderate shot ought to be pretty sure of

his birds. One great advantage of this kind of shooting is that so few

birds get away wounded; as a rule they are either dropped at once or

get off scot-free, whereas in "driving" an immense number go away

wounded; and if there are any crows in the district, it is most curious

to see them on the day after a "drive" hunting the fields regularly and

systematically after the cripples.

There is still another method of partridge-shooting, but this mode is

only adopted by wealthy cits, and brand-new peers. The keepers, with a

strong force of beaters, are sent out to drive the birds into cover,

and, when there, men are left as stops to keep the birds from straying

out; then about twelve the party drive up in wagonettes, well wrapped

up, and with plenty of foot-warmers, &c., to the nearest piece of

cover, get out, take their guns, and walk right through it, blazing at

everything that shows itself; when they have done one field, they get

into their carriages and drive to the next, where the same amusement is

carried on; then comes hot lunch at the nearest keeper's house, which

lasts for an hour or more, and the afternoon sport is a repetition of

the morning's. There is no stopping to pick up the game,--keepers are

left behind for that, and are told to take their guns, so as to stop

any cripples, the "writing between the lines" being in this case that

they are to kill all they can, so as to make the bag sound better at

the end of the day.

As partridge-shooting is one of the cheapest amusements,

pheasant-shooting, on the other hand, is one of the dearest. What with

feeding the young birds and doctoring them, and the constant watching

they require when they are turned into the cover; and lastly, the large

staff of beaters, the calculation of ten shillings per head for every

one killed is not far beyond the mark. Pheasant-shooting can really

only be managed by one method, and that is by having a body of

well-trained beaters; so cunning are these birds that there is no

chance of giving your friends the desired sport, if you do not have

them. It is true a very pleasant day may often be had on the outskirts

of your grounds by going round with some well-broken spaniels; but for

real pheasant-shooting beaters are indispensable. A well-arranged and

successful beat requires almost as much generalship as an Ashanti

campaign. The covers must be watched from the earliest season, but the

watchers must show themselves as little as possible; if the pheasants

come out, they should put them back by rattling a stick or shaking some

branches, for by showing themselves the chances are that the pheasants

would fly off at once, but the rattle of a stick merely makes them run

back into cover. Then the corners where they are to rise must be netted

most carefully, perfect silence being kept, and as little noise of any

kind made as possible. When the beat has actually commenced not a point

must be left unguarded, the smallest ditch or grip with grass in it

must have a "stop" at it, and any hare or rabbit runs that there may be

must be stopped also. The boys who act as "stops" have to be well

drilled in their parts, just to keep a subdued kind of rattle with

their two short sticks, and by no means to strike the bushes in

cover--merely to use their sticks as a kind of castanet. In fact,

pheasants are at once the keeper's greatest pride and greatest plague,

from the time when he has to guard the wild birds' nests against

egg-stealers, and to watch those brought up under hens--ever on the

look-out for gapes or croup when they are quite young, and then when

older, and turned into the covers, on the watch for poachers or vermin,

until the grand shooting-day; and even until that is over his anxiety

is unceasing. It is very difficult to prevent them straying,

particularly in a district where there are many oaks, as they will,

however well fed, roam after acorns. And then to insure there being a

proper quantity of pheasants in the required places is no easy work.

With all the pains possible, it is extraordinary how they will stray

away. Two instances of this straying propensity came under my

individual notice.

I was staying with a large party at a friend's house for

pheasant-shooting, and as the covers had not been beaten before, my

friend was sanguine of some first-rate sport, knowing the large number

of pheasants that had been reared, and the trouble that had been taken

with them. We went out, and everything seemed to promise an excellent

day's shooting; the pheasants were all reported safe the night before,

and "stops" had been sent out early to prevent them straying, nets put

down, and all complete. Well, the first cover that was beaten yielded

only about thirty or forty pheasants, instead of three or four times

that number, and the second and third the same. The host looked much

annoyed, and his keeper almost heart-broken; and this kind of sport

continued until the afternoon, when my friend called up the keeper, and

in desperation ordered him to beat a small covert standing by itself

about three-quarters of a mile off. The man said he did not think it

was any use, as no pheasants were ever there; however, as his master

wished it, it should be done, and he sent off some men to put down the

nets very carefully. When we came up the under-keeper said there

certainly were some pheasants there, though he had never known them to

be in that place before; so we began, and very soon found that they had

nearly all migrated from their usual quarters to this place, above four

hundred being killed in this small cover. How they got there no one

could guess; there were not any connecting hedgerows or ploughed

fields, and they had roosted in their usual places.

The second case occurred to myself. I wished to beat a small cover of

my own of about four acres, as we knew there were some pheasants there,

and being an outlying one it was not altogether safe; so I gave orders

that the place should be netted, and "stops," &c., sent out, and then

went and beat it, but to my great surprise found scarcely anything. The

keeper was utterly puzzled too; we tried all the likely spots round

with no result, and I came to the conclusion that some poachers must

have beaten the wood very early that day. However, as we were going

off, the quick eye of my keeper detected a pheasant running in an old

grassy lane near, and we resolved to try this; and well it was we did;

every bush and tuft of grass seemed to hold a pheasant, and we made a

capital bag, killing all but one, to my keeper's great satisfaction.

Several more were got than the number he had mentally put down for the

cover to yield; however, in this case we at length detected the way

they had got out. The end of the wood had been netted, and a "stop" put

on one side where there was an old ditch; but on the other a little

grip with long grass in it, leading from the cover across a field to

the old lane, had been left unguarded, as the net was thought to have

been fastened down so closely that nothing could get out; but the

pheasants found the weak place, and undoubtedly strayed by it.

To insure a good day's pheasant-shooting, thoroughly trained beaters

are absolutely necessary; and it is equally needful that the guns

should remain where they are posted, or if they are to move, only do so

exactly as the head-keeper directs. Nothing is more annoying, both to

master and keeper, than having a good day spoiled because two or three

of the guns will get together to hear or tell the last new story, and

consequently let the pheasants escape by not being at their proper

posts. If you have the good fortune to be placed by the net at the end

of the beat, you will find that, besides having the best place for

sport, great amusement can be derived by noticing the behaviour of the

various kinds of game as they come up to it. Soon after you have taken

your position, the rattle of sticks is heard, showing that the beat has

begun, and shortly a suppressed shout indicates that a rabbit is up;

for the best-trained beaters in England cannot resist giving a shout at

the sight of one, and if they are a scratch lot, the yells that greet

its appearance could not be exceeded if half a dozen foxes had been

unkennelled at once. They will allow a pheasant or woodcock or, in

fact, any other kind of game, to get away silently; but a rabbit is too

much for them--why, I do not know; but such is the fact. In a short

time something may be heard coming very rapidly towards the net, and in

a minute a splendid old cock-pheasant appears, who runs right up to it;

then, suddenly catching sight of you, back he goes like a racehorse,

and you hear the whirr as he rises on meeting the line of beaters, and

the cry of "Mark back," succeeded as a rule by two rapid shots,

sometimes only by a single one, followed by a crash as he comes down

through the trees. Next a lot of hen-pheasants come pattering along,

crouching as they run with outstretched neck. These come up very

quietly, and begin to examine the net closely, walking along it, trying

whether they can find a place to pass underneath, and, if they do, they

infallibly lead all the rest away; but, failing this, they squat down

and become at once almost invisible; so exactly does their plumage

assimilate itself to the dead leaves that, unless you happen to catch

their eye, you would never detect them. Then come a lot of young cocks

in a terrible flurry, running here, there, and everywhere, occasionally

twisting round like teetotums; these, too, at length squat, picking out

tufts of brake or grass, where their dark heads are covered, and their

back and long tail-feathers just match the stuff they are lying in.

Presently some hares come along, and these are all listening so

intently to the beaters, and looking back as well, that they blunder

against the net, greatly to their astonishment; for they sit up and

stare at it, and then trot away to see if they can make off by one of

their visual runs; failing in this, they lie down in some of the

thickest cover, hoping to escape by this plan. Numerous rabbits come

hopping along, and, meeting the net, turn and hide themselves in stumps

or any other place they can find. And really, as the beaters come

nearer and nearer, you would never imagine the quantity of game there

is; a novice would at once declare there was none, so absolutely

motionless does it remain until it is forced up; and then, although you

have been at the post all the time, the quantity seems quite

astonishing. Pheasants begin to whirr up, at first by twos and threes,

and then almost by scores at a time, and the firing is incessant; it

seems now that every tuft of grass or piece of fern has a pheasant

under it; but in spite of the beaters, several old cocks run back

between them, being far too clever to rise and be shot at, knowing that

a beater may almost as well strike at a flash of lighting as at an old

cock running.

I may here remark that some of these old cocks will often escape being

killed season after season by some dodge or other. In a cover of my own

there was an old cock-pheasant who lived between six and seven years,

always escaping the guns. We used to drive this cover regularly to the

same point, and just before the beaters had finished, this old fellow

would get up close to the outside hedge, rising above the underwood as

if he would give an excellent shot; but, just as you thought he was as

good as bagged, closing his wings, he would drop into the field close

to the hedge, turn round, and run back like a racer, hopping over the

fence again into the cover just behind the beaters. He practised this

dodge successfully for several years; but at length the keeper

complained so much that he disturbed the cover, and would not let any

other bird come near, that I had to devise means to kill him, which was

effected by driving the cover the opposite way to which he was

accustomed. The old fellow was so bewildered that he rose, gave a fair

shot, and was killed. A more splendid bird than he was could scarcely

have been seen--in full plumage, a broad and perfect white ring round

his neck, and spurs an inch long, and as sharp and hard as if they had

been made of iron.

Very amusing it is, too, to watch the shooters. There stands one man,

picking his birds, and dreading a miss for the sake of his reputation;

here is a greedy shot, firing at everything, blowing much of his game

to pieces, for fear anyone else should get a shot; and again, there is

the keeper's horror and detestation--a man who sends off his birds

wounded, as a rule hitting them, but very seldom killing one clean,

with the exception of those that he utterly annihilates. Lookers-on are

apt to laugh at sportsmen for missing pheasants, so large do they look,

and such apparently easy shots do they give; and until a person tries

himself, he has no idea how fast they really do fly, or how easy it is

to miss them.

Rabbit-shooting is capital sport; indeed, none can be better for

affording sport to a large Christmas-party in the country. Everybody

enjoys it, and brightens up at the idea, from the schoolboy home for

the holidays--who has been in and out of the house scores of times

already to see how the weather looked, whether the beagles would be

ready, or on some other wonderful pretext--to the old sportsman, who

did not know whether he should come, but cannot resist the temptation,

merely trying at first to save his dignity by saying he should just

come and see if any woodcocks were sprung, and ending in being as

enthusiastic about it as the youngest. The "form" displayed by the

shooters is diverse. There is the elderly gentleman who gets away by

himself to a quiet corner, and is found at lunch-time with three or

four mangled rabbits, none of them having been more than a couple of

yards from his gun when they were shot. Then there is the man who will

always fire both barrels; if he misses with the first, of course he

tries with his second; but if he does hit the first time, discharges

the second barrel as a sort of salute in honour of his successful

first. And here is an amateur--this one usually a schoolboy or 'Varsity

man--who fires at whatever he gets the slightest glimpse of; a robin

flitting about amongst the brambles is safe to have a shot fired at it;

and indeed the dogs, keepers, and shooters have all, in their turns,

very narrow escapes from this gentleman: the position he has held is

well and distinctly marked by the cut-down underwood and well-peppered

trunks of trees. Then there is the sportsman, generally a great swell,

who fires at everything he sees in the distance, and claims all game

killed within a radius of a quarter of a mile. He cannot be induced to

shoot at a rabbit or any game within a reasonable distance, his excuse

always being, "Choke-bore, my dear fellow--blow it to bits;" the fact

being that he never hits anything except by accident, and fancies by

this plan that he is not detected.

I once saw a capital trick played on a person of this kind by a couple

of mischievous schoolboys. They procured a dead rabbit, and fixed it

firmly in a lifelike position by means of sticks, &c.; then tying a

long piece of string to each foreleg, they went and ensconced

themselves behind two large trees in the cover, one on each side of the

road, about seventy yards from the gentleman's stand. Putting down the

rabbit, one of them drew it slowly across the road, the other giving a

shout, which made their friend look round and immediately shoot at it,

when the string was jerked and the rabbit fell on its side. Whilst he

was reloading and fiddling with his gun, the rabbit was drawn away, and

in a short time the game was played again; in the end about twenty

shots were fired at it by the victim, not one of which touched it, and

the string was only cut once. When lunch-time came, and the keeper went

round to collect the rabbits, he was saluted by the gentleman with:

"Well, Smith, got my eye in to-day. Never saw such a gun; killed at

least thirty rabbits straight off crossing the road up there. Must have

been one of their regular runs."

Off went the keeper to pick them up, and of course detected the trick

at once. His good manners would not allow him to laugh there; so he had

to make a bolt for it, and, to my great surprise, I saw this staid and

serious head-keeper burst through the cover into the ride I was in, and

begin to shout with laughter in the most uproarious manner. For a

moment I thought he had gone mad, and on walking up to him could get

nothing out of him, except between his fits of laughter, "Beg pardon,

sir, but them 'limbs,' them two 'limbs!'" At last he got sufficiently

calm to tell me what had occurred, and I need hardly say that I laughed

almost as heartily. The indignation of the victim was great when he

discovered the trick, and he stalked off to the house at once; and

perhaps it was well that he did, for the two young scamps' account of

the whole thing was enough to send anyone into fits. It is needless to

say that they ever after occupied the foremost place in the keeper's

affections.

It is, indeed, a very pretty sight to see a pack of beagles working in

cover. How they try every tuft of grass or rushes! Soon you notice that

they are working more eagerly, and some begin to lash their tails, and

suddenly out bolts "bunny" from his seat, sure to be saluted by a hasty

shot from some one, not the least to its detriment, but a very narrow

escape for the leading dogs. Away go the pack, making the woods ring

with their tongues. Excited individuals race after them, often with

their guns on full cock, and their fingers on the trigger. What their

ideas may be in this performance is difficult to say, but I suppose it

is the effect of that temporary insanity that seizes many people at the

sight of a rabbit. As a rabbit invariably runs a ring, and returns to

its starting-place, there is not the least use, except for the sake of

the exercise, in trying to follow it; and the first one put up is safe

to run his ring, as the good shots will not fire at him, that the

youngsters may have a chance, and the indifferent shots are sure to

miss the first through excitement. You hear plenty of shots whilst the

dogs are running, as other rabbits, frightened by their noise and

passage, bolt from their seats and scuttle about everywhere. Besides

these, a few old cock-pheasants, who have strayed from the preserves,

are sure to be found and shot. You shortly hear a shot from the cover

the rabbit was found in, followed by "Who-whoop!" showing that the

hunted one has been killed.

The keeper then begins to draw afresh, and you may notice that certain

of the older sportsmen are very attentive to the hounds whilst drawing,

the reason being, as is soon evident, that they hope a woodcock may be

flushed, and their hopes are usually realised. If you mark one beagle

poking about by himself, sniffing along, evidently on scent, yet not

opening, you may be pretty sure he is on a woodcock. But very soon

another rabbit is found, and away goes the pack, this time not quite so

steadily, as the number of rabbits up tempt the younger hounds after

them. However, this adds (except in the opinion of the staid elders) to

the sport; and soon, by the noise of the beagles' tongues and the rapid

shooting, it appears as if every hound had a rabbit to himself. There

certainly must be some "sweet little cherub" sitting "up aloft," who

protects rabbit-shooters and beagles, so reckless does the shooting

always appear. Here you see an excited youth fire at a rabbit not a

yard in front of the dog. How he manages to miss both seems

incomprehensible, but he does. There another rushes round a corner, and

blazes both barrels at one, just in a line with another gun, and only a

few yards from him; but he escapes too. In a word, rabbit-shooting with

beagles is one of the most amusing, but at the same time one of the

most dangerous, sports going.

The advance of civilisation and cultivation has almost entirely spoiled

snipe and wild-fowl shooting. In the districts where, thirty years ago,

ducks might be found by dozens and snipe in swarms, the former are

extinct; and as for the latter, if there happens to be one, it flies

off before you are within half a mile of it, as if it was ashamed of

being seen in such a place. I well remember the capital shooting I used

to get in Berkshire. There was a large swampy common of several hundred

acres, all rough sedgy grass and rushes; on one side was a wide ditch

full of twists and turns, with high reedy banks, and at the further end

a narrow tributary of the Thames, with beds of water-rushes on both

sides; and on the other side were acres of small meadows of from six to

ten acres, divided by high hawthorn hedges and deep wide ditches. It

was a real "happy hunting-ground" for anyone fond of the sport, and

many have been the long days that I and my retriever passed on it. The

common itself was invariably full of snipe, and they behaved themselves

properly in those days, not rising and going off in whisps directly you

appeared, but trying to be shot at decently, like respectable birds.

Then the ditch and river were sure to hold ducks; and after you had

hunted the common, it was very exciting work, creeping up the various

well-known curves and turns in the ditch, where the ducks usually

remained, my dog creeping after me, quite as much interested as I was

myself, and showing most wonderful intelligence in avoiding stepping on

any little pieces of thin ice or anything that would make a noise; then

the careful look over the bank, and if the stalk had been successful,

the rapid double shot at the ducks, as they rose with a rush, followed

by the drop of killed or wounded, if the shot had been lucky, and the

subsequent hunt after the cripples, if unfortunately there were any,

for nothing on earth is so difficult to get as a wounded duck. The way

they will dive, and the time they can keep under water, only rising and

putting the tip of their beak up to get air, and the extraordinary

places they get into, will puzzle the best retriever, and weary out his

master's patience, unless he has a very large stock of that, or

obstinacy, in his composition. But very often, when I peered cautiously

over the bank, the ducks could just be seen swimming away down a

further reach of the ditch, making for the larger stream below, and

then it was a race as to which should get there first, as the cunning

birds knew as well as I did that if they once got there, and into the

reed-beds, they were comparatively safe. It was no joke, running as

hard as you could go, in a stooping position, for several hundred

yards; and often they would escape me, an unfortunate step on a piece

of thin ice, or a stick, making them rise, and I then had the pleasure

of seeing them fly off and drop into a reed-bed half a mile off, which

I could not get at.

I had often been warned that the ditch was dangerous, and proved it on

one occasion, very nearly to my cost. Some ducks dropped into a rushy

pool in a field on the opposite side of it, and as I should have had a

walk of a mile to get round to them, I determined to try and cross,

fortunately for myself selecting a place where there was a stout young

willow; so putting down my gun, and catching firm hold of the tree, I

put one leg into the ditch, and soon found, though it passed down

through the mud above my knee, that no bottom was to be found, and on

trying to withdraw it, discovered that my leg was fixed as if in a

vice. Fortunately the willow was strong, and having one leg on the

bank, after pulling until I thought the other must be dislocated, I

succeeded in extricating myself.

But the meadows on the further side were where the best sport used to

be got. These, as I have said, were divided by large hawthorn hedges

fully twelve feet high, and intersected by deep ditches full of reeds,

with an open pool here and there. The meadows, too, had narrow gutters

cut in them to act as drains, I believe, and these abounded with snipe;

and after you had flushed the common ones, if you hunted carefully a

good many jacks could be found. The ditches were very good for ducks.

By help of the hedges you could get up to them unperceived, and many a

fine mallard I got here. Hares were also fond of the rough grass, and

partridges might usually be found in the middle of the day. I remember

bagging one December day six and a half couple of ducks, eleven couple

of snipe, besides some jacks, three hares, and three and a half brace

of birds. This does not sound much, but to me it was a thoroughly

enjoyable day. No keeper following at one's heels, full of advice, but

just going where and how I pleased; then the successful stalk after

ducks, and the unexpected luck with partridges and hares, in addition

to the snipe, have indelibly impressed this day on my memory. Being in

this neighbourhood a short time ago, I went down to look at my

favourite ground, and found that the large marshy common, with a few

donkeys and some wretched cows trying to get a living off it, had been

drained, and subdivided by neat post and rail fences, and sheep were

grazing where snipe used to abound. The only thing unchanged was the

old ditch. I suppose it is all right, but I prefer the ducks and snipe.

Many years ago very fair duck-shooting, and some snipe as well, might

be got on the Thames between Marlow and Windsor, and this was a very

luxurious kind of wild-fowl shooting; for all you had to do was to hire

a punt and a good puntsman who knew the river well, and, wrapping

yourself up comfortably in a warm coat, drop down the river, going into

the quiet back waters and round the eyot-beds. In favourable weather a

good many ducks might be found, and it was curious to notice how they

would hide themselves under the banks where they were undermined by the

stream, and the roots of the osiers hung down. An old mallard would

constantly stay until fairly poked out; and often when you thought you

had tried them thoroughly, after you left an old fellow would rise and

go quacking off. The eyot-beds were favourite places for snipe; but you

could not do much with these unless with a steady old dog, who would

poke slowly all over the place, the stumps and stalks of the osiers

entirely preventing any walking. But now, I believe, this style of

shooting is at an end.

My last attempt at duck-shooting was very exciting, in fact rather too

much so. A friend, who knew my weakness for it, wrote and asked me to

come to his house, as I could get capital flight-shooting close to his

place. Of course I went, and in the evening we started for the river,

which was much flooded, and embarking in a boat, I was soon landed on a

small mound in the middle of the floods, about twelve feet square, and

was told it was a first-rate place, as the ducks, in their flight from

some large ponds about five miles off, always passed over it. I was

also told I might be sure to know when they were coming by the flashes

of the guns of other wild fowlers on the banks some miles away. A

whistle was given me to signal for the boat when I wanted it, and I was

left alone in my glory. It was very cold, and my island was too small

for exercise. Soon a flash caught my eye, and then the report of a gun

fired some miles off came to my ears, soon followed by a succession of

flashes and reports from gunners posted along each side of the river.

The effect was very pretty, and I admired it greatly, until an idea

struck me that there might be guns posted on the bank behind. Just then

some ducks came along, and I fired rapidly at them; almost

simultaneously came two reports from the bank, and some heavy charges

of shot cut up the water all round; in addition something weighty

struck the ground just in my rear, covering me with mud. Instantly

blowing my whistle, the boat soon came, and on landing I saw two men,

one of whom coming up asked me where I had been. I told him "on the

mound"; to which he rejoined, "Was you, really? Lor, now, if I didn't

think it was the miller's old donkey! and, thinks I, if the aggravating

old beast gets there, a shot or two won't hurt un, and teach him not to

get there again; so I lets 'goo' when the ducks comes along. There, and

so 'twas you, sir; lor, now, to think of that!" and the old fellow went

off into a series of chuckles.

His gun was an extraordinary one--a single barrel, something like four

feet long, about eight bore. I asked what charge he put in, and he

showed me a measure that held at least four drachms of powder, and

another that would contain about three ounces of number two shot. This

was how he loaded, and in addition, he said, he always put in a couple

of pistol-shots--"they did bring anything down so sweet that they hit."

So these were the pleasant things I heard strike the ground just behind

me. I went home at once, thankful that I had not been bagged.