Boxing Day, in many parts, remains a regulation fixture for
rabbit-shooting by tenants, local tradesmen, keepers, and their
friends. Nobody could possibly appreciate the exciting nature of these
shoots unless present in person. It is safer to be present only in
spirit. Otherwise, shot-proof cover becomes the most desirable thing
in the world: and it often seems a wonder how more than one man can
survive the day to count the bag. Talking to a tenant-farmer on such
an occasion, we noticed that his hands were covered with warts, and
suggested remedies. "They b'aint woorts, bless ye--they be only shots,"
came a proud answer--the honourable wounds of many rabbit-shooting
campaigns.
At another tenant-and-tradesman shoot we found the guns unduly
plentiful--there were twenty to begin with, and the party grew as the
day wore on. But all of a sudden there was a magic disappearance of a
large proportion of sportsmen, corresponding with the appearance of an
important-looking individual, who calmly went to the man next to us,
and relieved him of his piece and cartridges, which he began to use in
a liberal fashion. Gradually, the original gunners reappeared--mostly
from fir-trees. And it transpired that they were gunners without
licences--who had taken courage when they saw the local officer of
the law stretching a point himself. One, bolder than the others, made
an appeal to the law for a ruling on the licensing question--and was
informed that notice must be given of the imminent use of the gun, in
order that the law's representative might have time to look the other
way.
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