Here is the gamekeeper's idea of what constitutes a pleasantly
flavoured October 1: The day should break with a misty dawn, grey dewy
cobwebs everywhere betokening a visible if tardy sun. There should
be a brace of spaniels whose occasional lapses after fur are atoned
for by their untiring energy among the blind tangles of hedgerows and
dells. There should be three guns whose object is to enjoy sport and to
make a mixed bag, including incidentally the first pheasants--without
the formality of the so-called battue. There should be a couple of
experienced beaters, and a keeper whose soul is set on circumventing
certain wary old cocks that are known to him as leaders astray of
youthful birds. The killing of pheasants should not be the main thing;
if the charm of the First of October lay only in this it would quickly
fade. Next to the potting of young rooks with a shot-gun as they sit
stoically near their nests, few phases of shooting call for less skill
than pheasant-shooting in early October.
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