"drive" for black game and roe. On one occasion we were asked to join a
party for this purpose. We set off with an army of guns and beaters,
some of the former decidedly inexperienced ones. It is, of course,
essential in roe-driving, that you should, when in position, keep
absolutely still. It was known that two bucks with exceptionally fine
heads frequented the wood, and our host was anxious to secure them. My
husband was placed in a very likely place, and there, in spite of
midges and flies galore, he possessed his soul in patience. Suddenly he
thought he heard a footstep; the sound was repeated, and, cautiously
moving to discover what it might portend, he saw the gun stationed next
him calmly patrolling up and down, flicking away the midges with his
white handkerchief! My husband didn't get that buck.
After luncheon, our party was reinforced by the butler and the French
cook. Both arrived with guns, which they carried "at the trail," at
full cock over the roughest ground. The chef was a long, lean, lank,
cadaverous man looking as if he wanted one of his own skewers run down
him. He was dressed in shiny black clothes and wore _enormous_
slippers. Comfortable enough, no doubt, on the _trottoir_ of his
"beloved Paris," but scarcely suitable for the hill! So he seemed to
find, for he shortly retired, when we felt considerably happier.
Another time, the best wood, the _bonne bouche_, was carefully beaten
through while we were discussing a _recherché_ champagne luncheon. Just
as we finished, the shouts, cries, and discordant noises which denote
the approach of beaters, were heard, and shortly after, one of the
keepers came up and informed us that the whole wood had been gone
through and that seven roe, to say nothing of a red deer had been seen!
Evidently "someone had blundered." I do not myself think there is much
sport in roe-driving. To begin with they are such pretty graceful
animals, one cannot kill them without remorse. Also it requires very
little skill to put a charge of shot into them even at a gallop.
Nor is a grey-hen a difficult bird to kill. Heavy and slow--what Mr
Jorrocks calls "a henterpriseless brute"--it flops along through the
birch trees (though, when driven, and coming from some distance it
acquires much greater speed), looking more like a barn-door fowl than a
game bird; but the Sultan of the tribe is quite a different thing.
Wild, wary and watchful, he is ever on the _qui vive_. When you do
get a shot at him he is travelling by express, and having, most
probably, been put up some distance off, he has considerable "way" on.
You see his white feathers gleam in the sun, and the curl of his tail
against the sky. Shoot well ahead of him. Ah! great is the satisfaction
of hearing the dull thud as he falls, and of seeing him bounce up with
the force of the contact with mother-earth. Truly, an old black-cock is
a grand bird! His glossy blue-black plumage, white under-wings and
tail, and red eye make such a pleasing contrast.
I remember once, when grouse-driving towards the end of the day, the
beaters brought up a small birch wood which stood near the last row of
butts. There were two or three ladies with us. One of them, a most
bewitching and lovely young woman, accompanied a gallant soldier into
his butt, to mark his prowess. As luck would have it, nine old
black-cock flew over that brave colonel's butt, but, strange to say,
_four_ went away without a shot, and not one of the nine remained as
witnesses of his skill! Now, let me point out, had that said charming
girl been _shooting_, she would have been stationed in a butt by
herself, and, judging by that soldier's usual performance, at least
five of those old black-cock would have bitten the dust that day! And
"the moral of that is"--give a graceful girl a gun!
The hill ponies are wonderfully sagacious animals. When they have been
once or twice over a road, they will never mistake their way. Once,
when staying in Sutherlandshire, two of us started at 10·15 a.m. We
rode about four miles, before beginning to shoot, over a very bad bit
of country. There were two burns to ford, some curious kind of grips to
jump, and several boggy places to circumnavigate.
We shot away from home till about 6·30, then met the ponies and started
on our ride home--about nine miles. We neither of us knew the way,
beyond having a vague idea as to the direction in which the lodge lay.
The first part was easy enough, a narrow sheep-walk guided us, but at
length that failed, and there was nothing for it but to trust to the
ponies. We could only go at a foot's-pace. The September evening fast
closed in, and it came on to drizzle, until, for the last two miles, we
could scarcely see two yards before us, and yet those ponies brought us
home--over the two fords, avoided the treacherous grips and the boggy
places, never putting a foot wrong the whole way! It was long past nine
when the lights of the lodge hove in sight. Truly that night's dinner
was a "thing of beauty" and bed seemed a "joy for ever!"
Two days later found me keen as mustard to scale the heights of Ben
Hope for ptarmigan. It was almost the only game bird, except
capercailzie, I had never shot, and I was extremely anxious to seize an
opportunity of doing so. Five guns set out. We rode a considerable
distance, until the ground became too soft for ponies to travel.
Arrived at the foot of the hill I gazed in dismay at its steep, stony
height, and felt like the child in the allegory who turns back at its
first difficulty! But pluck and ambition prevailed, and I struggled
gamely up, though, hot and breathless, I was forced to pause more than
once ere we got even halfway. We had agreed that, on no account, were
we to fire at anything but ptarmigan. When we had ascended about 1300
feet a covey of grouse got up. One of the sportsmen, nay, the very one
who had been foremost in suggesting that ptarmigan only should be our
prey, turned round, and feebly let fly both barrels, wounding one
wretched bird which disappeared into the depths below, never to be seen
again! As the report reverberated through the hill, the whole place
above us seemed to be alive with the cackling of ptarmigan, and, in a
moment, without any exaggeration at least twenty brace were on the wing
at once, making their way round the shoulder, over the Green Corrie to
the highest part of Ben Hope. I think the spectre of that grouse must
haunt that sportsman yet!
Of course there were a few odd birds left, and, before we gained the
top, we had each picked up one or two, though, through another
contretemps, I missed my best chance. I had unwillingly, over a very
steep and rocky bit of ground, given up my gun to the keeper. The
moment after I had done so, two ptarmigan got up to my left, offering a
lovely cross shot, and, before I could seize the gun, they fell, a very
pretty double shot, to our host on my right. When we reached the
summit, we found ourselves enveloped in a thick fog, although down
below it was a brilliant hot day; so dense was it, that, notwithstanding
we were walking in line, some of us got separated, and it must have
been almost an hour before we joined forces again. Altogether it was
a hard day's work, but, having attained my object, I was sublimely
indifferent to everything else.
Driving is certainly the form of shooting that requires the most skill,
whether it be grouse or partridge, and is most fascinating when you can
hit your birds! Grouse-driving appears to me the easier of the two;
partly because they come straight, and partly because you can see them
much further off, also they are rather bigger, though they may,
perhaps, come the quicker of the two. Nothing but experience will show
you how soon you can fire at a driven grouse coming towards you. Some
people get on to their birds much quicker than others. I have heard it
said that as soon as you can distinguish the plumage of the bird, he is
within shot. Aim a little above him if he is coming towards you--a long
way ahead if he is crossing.
If you shoot with two guns, I assume that you have practised "giving
and taking" with a loader. Otherwise there will be a fine clashing of
barrels and possibly an unintentional explosion. The cap and jacket for
driving must be of some neutral tint, any white showing is liable to
turn the birds. Of course you must be most careful never to fire a side
shot within range of the next butt. A beginner is more apt to do this,
from being naturally a slow shot at first.
The same rules hold good for partridge-driving, only there you usually
stand behind a high hedge, consequently you cannot see the birds
approaching. You hear "Ma-a-rk" in the distance, and the next
moment--whish! They are over, scattering at the sight of you to right
or left; take one as he comes over you, and you may get another going
away from you--or a side shot--provided there is no gun lower down whom
you run the risk of peppering.
Walking up partridges in turnips affords the same kind of shooting as
grouse over dogs; not bad fun when they are plentiful, but hardish work
for petticoats! If a hare gets up and bounds away, the moving
turnip-tops will be your only guide to her whereabouts, aim rather low,
or the chances are you fire over her back. A curious incident once
happened when we were partridge shooting. Two hares were put up, and
running from opposite directions up the same row they "collided," and
with such violence that one broke its neck and the other was so stunned
that it was picked up by a beater! The Irishman might with truth have
said--"Man, they jostle one anoither." And this in spite of the Ground
Game Act!
You will occasionally come across snipe in turnips. They are horrid
little zig-zagging wretches! If you wait till their first gyrations are
over, they do, for a second, fly straight (for them), and even a
20-bore can sometimes lay them low.
I once shot a quail. I mistook it for a "cheeper" minus a tail, and
gazed placidly at its retreating form, murmuring to myself, "too
small," when I was electrified by a yell--"Shoot, shoot!" Being trained
to habits of obedience, I promptly did as I was told, and brought the
"little flutterer" down. A quail in a turnip field! I should as soon
have expected to meet one of the children of Israel.
On a winter afternoon, _faute-de-mieux_, shooting wood-pigeons coming
in to roost, is a pastime not to be despised, but it is very cold work.
A windy evening is the best; luckily pigeons always fly in against the
wind, so you can get on the leeside of the plantation and shoot them
coming in, or you can ensconce yourself under the shelter of some
fir-boughs near the trees in which they are accustomed to roost. A
pigeon takes a lot of killing, he possesses so many feathers; then he
has an eye like a hawk, and can turn with incredible speed. If there
are several guns in different woods you may easily get 100 in an hour
or two, and often many more.
Of the grandest sport of all I grieve to say I can write nothing. I
have never had the chance of a shot at a stag. It is not possible to
describe a stalk by hearsay only; besides, in my remarks hitherto, I
have recorded nothing which has not come within my own actual
experience.
I can, however, easily imagine the intense pleasure of being well
brought up to within, perhaps, 100 yards of a good stag, the excitement
of having the rifle thrust into your hands with a whispered "Tak'
time," the cautious raising of the weapon to a rest, the anxious moment
as you take your sight and gently press the trigger, and the supreme
delight of hearing the "thud" of the bullet as it strikes, and as the
smoke clears off, of seeing him stagger a few paces and fall "never to
_rise_ again." I forbear to draw the reverse side of the picture.
Of course, in many forests, stalking is quite feasible for ladies,
though not within reach of all. I confess I envy those fortunate
individuals who have, more than once, compelled some "antlered monarch
of the glen" to bow his lofty head and lower his colours at their
bidding!
With regard to dress--I believe, for those who can endure the feel,
wearing all wool is a great safeguard against rheumatism, chills, and
all evils of that ilk. But, on this subject, every woman will of course
please herself. I will therefore merely give an outline of my own
get-up. A short plain skirt of Harris tweed, with just enough width to
allow of striding or jumping, a half tight-fitting jacket to match,
with turn-up collar and strap like a cover-coat, pockets big enough to
get the hands in and out easily, a flannel shirt and leather belt, or,
for smarter occasions, a stiff shirt and waistcoat. Knickerbockers of
thin dark tweed, high laced boots with nails, or brown leather gaiters
and shoes. If a petticoat is worn, _silk_ is the best material for
walking in. I have neither mackintosh nor leather on my dress, I
dislike the feel of both. For wet weather, a waterproof cape, with
straps over the shoulders so that it can be thrown back, if required,
in the act of shooting, is very convenient.
But there is really only one essential in a shooting costume. It MUST
be loose enough to give the arms _perfect freedom_ in _every_
direction--without this, it is impossible to shoot well or quickly.
One last hint. Never go on shooting when you are tired. It will only
cause you disappointment, and others vexation of spirit, for you will
assuredly shoot under everything. Bird after bird will go away wounded,
time after time your mentor (or tormentor) will cry "low and behind,
low and behind," until, in angry despair, you long to fling the empty
cartridge at his head. Take my advice "give it up, and go home!"
That the above notes may not be free from numerous sins of omission and
commission, I am well aware. It would be great presumption on my part
to suppose that my feeble pen could do what many men have failed to
accomplish. But if any hints I have given prove of service to beginners
and encourage them to persevere (even though at present, like the old
woman's false teeth "they misses as often as they hits"), my pleasant
task will not have been in vain.
MILDRED BOYNTON.
A KANGAROO HUNT.
BY MRS JENKINS.
It has been said "An Englishman is never happy unless he is killing
something," and nowadays, at any rate, his happiness seems increased if
members of the weaker sex share this propensity with him; and so a
short account of a kangaroo hunt may not be inappropriate in a book
about women's sports.
This is an exclusively Australian pastime, and has peculiar incidents
of its own from the start to the finish. We do not see pink coats and
heavy hunters, the bay of the hounds does not break on our ear, there
are no hedges to leap, nor brooks, followed by a flounder through a
ploughed field; we do not come home in a cold drizzle at the end of a
delightful day, and sit near the fireside, wondering whether there will
be a frost before morning, and whether the mare's legs will last this
season. No, our hunting is done under a bright sun and balmy breezes,
and, though we miss the prettiness and order which accompany a meet in
the "auld countree," still, there is a rugged beauty about our
surroundings. The horses are well-bred, though many of them not well
groomed; the riders are graceful and plucky, and the _tout ensemble_
makes a fair picture to the lover of horseflesh and sport.
Well, friends have come together, the kangaroo hounds (they are a cross
between the deerhound and greyhound,) are let loose and gambol round
the horses, letting out short barks of satisfaction as the riders
mount. Off we go. The country is hilly and thickly-wooded, logs lie in
all directions, but our horses, bred in the district, pick their way,
and go at a smart canter in and out of trees, and jump the logs as they
come to them.
A low Hist! from the leader of the chase--he is the owner of the
station--mounted on a thorough-bred bay, the hounds stand a second with
pricked up ears, and their heads high in the air, for they run by
sight; then off they go, and off we go after them. The kangaroos, six
in number, led by a big "old man," spring along at an amazing pace,
crash goes the brushwood, here and there a hound rolls over, making a
miss at a log, but, in a second, he is up again, straining every nerve
of his graceful body to reach his companions. We are nearing a wire
fence; will the kangaroos be caught before we come to it? If not, some
pretty riding will be seen, and British pluck will be needed to carry
horse and rider over a five-feet fence, topped with barbed wire.
However, our courage is not to be tested this time; the fleetest hound
has the "old man" by the throat, the rest of the pack come up, and in a
few moments all is over. A boy skins the victim and the tail is cut
off, later on to make soup.
Now we have a consultation as to which way we shall go. It is getting
near luncheon time and our host wants us to camp on a pretty bend of
the river, so we take our course in that direction, spreading over a
good space, and all keeping a good look-out.
We are ascending a mountain, the way is stony, and, as we go along, the
scenery continually varies. Hill after hill rises before us, separated
by deep gorges, all thickly timbered and abounding in ferns and
flowering shrubs. The magpies warble and the thrush whistles its piping
note, interrupted now and then by the shrill laugh of the jackass. But
some kangaroos have been sighted, and even the most ardent lovers of
scenery are at once on the alert.
Up and down hill we go, with many a slip and a scramble, horse and
rider none the worse. The kangaroos rush at a tremendous speed, some of
them carrying a young one in their pouch; one poor beast is so hard
pressed she throws the young one out of her pouch; it hops away through
the grass, to be caught later by friendly hands and carried home as a
pet. No such luck for the mother, the hounds are on her and she is
rolled over, and on they go again in pursuit of her fleeter companions.
A big fence has scattered them, but one, more plucky than the rest,
makes a frantic spring. Alas! the quick run has been too much for his
powers and he gets caught on the merciless barbed wire. The foremost
rider, thinking the kangaroo would clear it, is preparing to take the
fence in a flying leap, but the sight of the kangaroo caught makes the
horse baulk, and crash they all come down together. With a wonderful
quickness the rider rolls himself away from the fallen horse and is
helping the animal up, both none the worse, except for a few scratches
and a good shaking.
Everyone is now agreed that luncheon has been well earned, so we ride
and drive (for a buggy and pair of ponies have been following in our
tracks) to a favourite spot. And what a sight breaks on our eyes! We
are in a valley, with hills towering around us, the river makes a sharp
bend, along the banks are a mass of wattle trees in full bloom, the
beautiful yellow flowers lighting up the dark green leaves and reddish
brown bark. The sky is cloudless, and a little way off, lies a herd of
Devon cattle, quietly chewing the cud, and mildly wondering what has
brought such a large party, evidently bent on play instead of work, to
their retreat. We see a ripple on the still, deep, flowing water, and a
platypus swims along quickly to his nest on the bank. A little lower
down we hear the whirr of the wild duck, which have been disturbed by
our coming.
A fire is soon lighted; one is told off to unpack the basket of good
things; another grills some steak, someone else undertakes potatoes,
the oldest bushman of the lot says he will regale us with "Johnnie
Cakes." These are made of flour and water and a little salt, rolled
very thin and cooked in the ashes, and very good they prove to be; and
last, but not least, we make the tea, boiling the water in a tin pot
and putting the tea into it.
In about half an hour our various cooks have all ready, and we lie
about on the grass and satisfy the cravings of hunger. After that pipes
are lighted and stories go round of former exploits, how wild horses
have been caught and tamed, how thousands of kangaroos have been driven
into yards made for the purpose and died of suffocation in the crowd;
of adventures with wild cattle and blacks, etc., etc. More serious
subjects, too, are being discussed in twos and threes; for there is
something quiet and soothing in the scene around, that brings to mind
memories long forgotten, joys and sorrows long past, and amid this
picture of peace and beauty, friends talk and open their hearts to each
other, and realise the fact that nature can preach a more eloquent
sermon than is heard from many a pulpit. But everything in this world
must come to an end; the horses are caught and harnessed and we all jog
homeward. On the way the younger spirits of the party have a gallop
after stray kangaroos and bring the tails back with them as trophies.
One incident in the last chase may be worth mentioning. The kangaroos
are bounding along, with the hounds and horsemen close behind them.
They come to a three rail fence of heavy timber; without a miss the
kangaroos take it in a flying leap and apparently without any extra
exertion; over go the hounds, and the horsemen follow to a man, then
the excitement increases for they are coming to a big lagoon; splash
goes a kangaroo into it and now we see a real fight. The kangaroo
stands up to his neck in the water, beating about with his legs, and
the hounds swim around. A young one, not knowing the danger, makes a
snap at his throat, he is instantly seized in the animal's arms and his
back broken. Poor Daisy! your hunting days have been short and you had
yet to learn that discretion was the better part of valour. The older
hounds keep swimming round, gradually coming nearer, and several at
once make snaps at different parts of the kangaroo. A hand-to-hand
fight takes place, the kangaroo ripping and wounding the hounds with
his powerful hind claws; but the plucky beasts keep their hold, and
amid yelps of rage and pain, the splashing and reddening of the water,
and the shouts of the huntsmen to encourage the hounds, the victim
sinks, after a vigorous struggle for his life.
As we drive down the mountains the sun is setting, banks of heavy
clouds are rising, tinged with purple, and prophesying a thunderstorm,
which is made more sure by the distant roar we hear. There is a
stillness in the air, broken by the cracking of the brushwood and the
ominous cry of birds. Suddenly a streak of lightning startles us,
followed by a loud crash which echoes round and round. We hurry home,
and only arrive just in time to escape a thorough soaking, for the rain
comes streaming down.
BEATRICE M. JENKINS.
CYCLING.
BY MRS E. ROBINS PENNELL.
"There should be nothing so much a man's business as his amusements."
Substitute _woman_ for _man_, and I, for my part, cannot quarrel
with Mr Stevenson's creed. Our amusements, after all, are the main
thing in life, and of these I have found cycling the most satisfactory.
As a good healthy tonic, it should appeal to the scrupulous woman
who cannot even amuse herself without a purpose; it has elements of
excitement to attract the more adventurous. It is a pleasure in itself,
the physical exercise being its own reward; it is a pleasure in what it
leads to, since travelling is the chief end of the cycle. That women do
not yet appreciate it at its true worth, that, as a rule, they would
still rather play tennis or pull a boat than ride a bicycle, is their
own great loss.