FARMER WILLUM’S PLACE: SNIPE SHOOTING
One October morning towards the end of the month, Orion and I started
to beat over Redcote Farm upon the standing invitation of the occupier.
There was a certainty of sport of some kind, because the place had
remained almost unchanged for the last century. It is “improvement”
that drives away game and necessitates the pheasant preserve.
The low whitewashed walls of the house were of a dull yellowish hue
from the beating of the weather. They supported a vast breadth of
thatched roof drilled by sparrows and starlings. Under the eaves the
swallows’ nests adhered, and projecting shelves were fixed to prevent
any inconvenience from them. Some of the narrow windows were still
darkened with the black boarding put up in the days of the window tax.
In the courtyard a number of stout forked stakes were used for putting
the dairy buckets on, after being cleaned, to dry. No attempt was made
to separate the business from the inner life of the house. Here in
front these oaken buckets, scoured till nearly white, their iron
handles polished like silver, were close under the eyes of any one
looking out. By the front door a besom leaned against the wall that
every comer might clean the mud from his boots; and you stepped at once
from the threshold into the sitting-room. A lane led past the garden,
if that could be called a lane which widened into a field and after
rain was flooded so deeply as to be impassable to foot passengers.
The morning we had chosen was fine; and after shaking hands with old
Farmer “Willum,” whose shooting days were over, we entered the lane,
and by it the fields. The meadows were small, enclosed with
double-mounds, and thickly timbered, so that as the ground was level
you could not see beyond the field in which you stood, and upon looking
over the gate might surprise a flock of pigeons, a covey of partridges,
or a rabbit out feeding. Though the tinted leaves were fast falling,
the hedges were still full of plants and vegetation that prevented
seeing through them. The “kuck-kuck” of the redwings came from the
bushes—the first note of approaching winter—and the tips of the rushes
were dead. Red haws on the hawthorn and hips on the briar sprinkled the
hedge with bright spots of colour.
The two spaniels went with such an eager rush into a thick
double-mound, dashing heedlessly through the nettles and under the
brambles, that we hastened to get one on each side of the hedge. A
rustling—a short bark; another, then a movement among the rushes in the
ditch, evidently not made by the dogs; then a silence. But the dogs
come back, and as they give tongue the rabbit rushes past a bare spot
on the slope of the bank. I fire—a snap shot—and cut out some fur, but
do no further harm; the pellets bury themselves in the earth. But,
startled and perhaps just stung by a stray shot, the rabbit bolts
fairly at last twenty yards in front of Orion, the spaniel tearing at
his heels.
Up goes the double-barrel with a bright gleam as the sunlight glances
on it. A second of suspense: then from the black muzzle darts a
cylinder of tawny flame and an opening cone of white smoke: a sharp
report rings on the ear. The rabbit rolls over and over, and is dead
before the dog can seize him. After harling the rabbit, Orion hangs him
high on a projecting branch, so that the man who is following us at a
distance may easily find the game. He is a labourer, and we object to
have him with us, as we know he would be certain to get in the way.
We then tried a corner where two of these large mounds, meeting, formed
a small copse in which grew a quantity of withy and the thick grasses
that always border the stoles. A hare bolted almost directly the dogs
went in: hares trust in their speed, rabbits in doubling for cover. I
fired right and left, and missed: fairly missed with both barrels.
Orion jumped upon the mound from the other side, and from that
elevation sent a third cartridge after her.
It was a long, a very long shot, but the hare perceptibly winced.
Still, she drew easily away from the dogs, going straight for a distant
gateway. But before it was reached the pace slackened; she made
ineffectual attempts to double as the slow spaniels overtook her, but
her strength was ebbing, and they quickly ran in. Reloading, and in
none of the best of tempers, I followed the mound. The miss was of
course the gun’s fault—it was foul; or the cartridges, or the bad
quality of the powder.
We passed the well-remembered hollow ash pollard, whence, years before,
we had taken the young owls, and in which we had hidden the old
single-barrel gun one sultry afternoon when it suddenly came on to
thunder. The flashes were so vivid and the discharges seemingly so near
that we became afraid to hold the gun, knowing that metal attracted
electricity. So it was put in the hollow tree out of the wet, and with
it the powder-flask, while we crouched under an adjacent hawthorn till
the storm ceased.
Then by the much-patched and heavy gate where I shot my first snipe,
that rose out of the little stream and went straight up over the top
bar. The emotion, for it was more than excitement, of that moment will
never pass from memory. It was the bird of all others that I longed to
kill, and certainly to a lad the most difficult. Day after day I went
down into the water-meadows; first thinking over the problem of the
snipe’s peculiar twisting flight. At one time I determined that I would
control the almost irresistible desire to fire till the bird had
completed his burst of zig-zag and settled to something like a straight
line. At another I as firmly resolved to shoot the moment the snipe
rose before he could begin to twist. But some unforeseen circumstance
always interfered with the execution of these resolutions.
Now the snipe got up unexpectedly right under foot; now one rose thirty
yards ahead; now he towered straight up, forced to do so by the tall
willows; and occasionally four or five rising together and calling
“sceap, sceap” in as many different directions, made me hesitate at
which to aim. The continual dwelling upon the problem rendered me
nervous, so that I scarcely knew when I pulled the trigger.
But one day, in passing this gateway, which was a long distance from
the particular water-meadows where I had practised, and not thinking of
snipes, suddenly one got up, and with a loud “sceap” darted over the
gate. The long slender gun—the old single-barrel—came to the shoulder
instinctively, without premeditation, and the snipe fell.
Coming now to the brook, which was broad and bordered by a hedge on the
opposite side, I held Orion’s gun while he leaped over. The bank was
steep and awkward, but he had planned his leap so as to alight just
where he could at once grasp an ash branch and so save himself from
falling back into the water. He could not, however, stay suspended
there, but had to scramble over the hedge, and then called for his gun.
I leaned mine against a hollow withy pollard, and called “ready.”
Taking his gun a few inches above the trigger guard (and with the guard
towards his side), holding it lightly just where it seemed to balance
in a perpendicular position, I gave it a slow heave rather than a
throw, and it rose into the air. This peculiar _feeling_ hoist, as it
were, caused it to retain the perpendicular position as it passed over
brook and hedge in a low curve. As it descended it did indeed slope a
little, and Orion caught it with one hand easily. The hedge being low
he could see it coming; but guns are sometimes heaved in this way over
hedges that have not been cropped for years. Then the gun suddenly
appears in the air, perhaps fifteen feet high, while the catch depends
not only upon the dexterity of the hand but the ear—to judge correctly
where the person who throws it is standing, as he is invisible.
The spaniels plunged in the brook among the flags, but though they made
a great splashing nothing came of it till we approached a marshy place
where was a pond. A moorhen then rose and scuttled down the brook, her
legs dragging along the surface some distance before she could get up,
and the sunshine sparkling on the water that dropped from her. I fired
and knocked her over: at the sound of the discharge a bird rose from
the low mound by the pond some forty yards ahead. My second barrel was
empty in an instant.
Both Orion’s followed; but the distance, the intervening pollard
willows, or our excitement spoilt the aim. The woodcock flew off
untouched, and made straight away from the territories we could beat
into those that were jealously guarded by a certain keeper with whom
Farmer “Willum” had waged war for years. “Come on!” shouted Orion as
soon as he had marked the cock down in a mound two fields away.
Throwing him my gun, I leaped the brook; and we at first raced, but on
second thoughts walked slowly, for the mound. Running disturbs accuracy
of fire, and a woodcock was much too rare a visitor for the slightest
chance to be lost.
As we approached we considered that very probably the cock would either
lie close till we had walked past, and get up behind, or he would rise
out of gunshot. What we were afraid of was his making for the
preserves, which were not far off. So we tossed for the best position,
and I lost. I had therefore to get over on the side of the hedge
towards the preserves and to walk down somewhat faster than Orion, who
was to keep (on his side) about thirty yards behind. The object was to
flush the cock on his side, so that if missed the bird might return
towards our territories. In a double-mound like this it is impossible
to tell what a woodcock will do, but this was the best thing we could
think of.
About half-way down the hedge I heard Orion fire both barrels in quick
succession—the mound was so thick I could not see through. The next
instant the cock came over the top of the hedge just above my head.
Startled at seeing me so close, he flew straight down along the summit
of the bushes—a splendid chance to look at from a distance; but in
throwing up the gun a projecting briar caught the barrels, and before I
could recover it the bird came down at the side of the hedge.
It was another magnificent chance; but again three pollard willows
interfered, and as I fired the bark flew off one of them in small
strips. Quickened by the whistling pellets, the cock suddenly lifted
himself again to the top of the hedge to go over, and for a moment came
full in view, and quite fifty yards away. I fired a snap shot as a
forlorn hope, and lost sight of him; but the next instant I heard Orion
call, “He’s down!” One single chance pellet had dropped the cock—he
fell on the other side just under the hedge.
We hastened back to the brook, thinking that the shooting would attract
the keepers, and did not stay to look at the bird till safe over the
water. The long beak, the plumage that seems painted almost in the
exact tints of the dead brown leaves he loves so well, the eyes large
by comparison and so curiously placed towards the poll of the head as
if to see behind him—there was not a point that did not receive its
share of admiration. We shot about half a dozen rabbits, two more
hares, and a woodpigeon afterwards; but all these were nothing compared
with the woodcock.
How Farmer “Willum” chuckled over it—especially to think that we had
cut out the game from the very batteries of the enemy! It was the one
speck of bitterness in the old man’s character—his hatred of this
keeper. Disabled himself by age and rheumatism from walking far, he
heard daily reports from his men of this fellow coming over the
boundary to shoot, or drive pheasant or partridge away. It was a sight
to see Farmer “Willum” stretch his bulky length in his old armchair,
right before the middle of the great fire of logs on the hearth,
twiddling his huge thumbs, and every now and then indulging in a hearty
laugh, followed by a sip at the “straight-cup.”
There was a stag’s horn over the staircase: “Willum” loved to tell how
it came there. One severe winter long since, the deer in the forest
many miles away broke cover, forced by hunger, and came into the
rickyards and even the gardens. Most of them were got back, but one or
two wandered beyond trace. Those who had guns were naturally on the
look-out; indeed, a regular hunt was got up—“Willum,” then young and
active, in it of course. This chase was not successful; but early one
morning, going to look for wild geese in the water-meadow with his
long-barrelled gun, he saw something in a lonely rickyard. Creeping
cautiously up, he rested the heavy gun on an ash stole, and the big
duck-shot tore its way into the stag’s shoulder. Those days were gone,
but still his interest in shooting was unabated.
Nothing had been altered on the place since he was a boy: the rent even
was the same. But all that is now changed—swept away before modern
improvements; and the rare old man is gone too, and I think his only
enemy also.
There was nothing I used to look forward to, as the summer waned, with
so much delight as the snipe shooting. Regularly as the swallow to the
eaves in spring, the snipe comes back with the early frosts of autumn
to the same well-known spots—to the bend of the brook or the boggy
corner in the ploughed field—but in most uncertain numbers. Sometimes
flocks of ten or twenty, sometimes only twos and threes are seen, but
always haunting particular places.
They have a special affection for peaty ground, black and spongy, where
every footstep seems to squeeze water out of the soil with a slight
hissing sound, and the boot cuts through the soft turf. There, where a
slow stream winds in and out, unmarked by willow or bush, but fringed
with green aquatic grasses growing on a margin of ooze, the snipe finds
tempting food; or in the meadows where a little spring breaks forth in
the ditch and does not freeze—for water which has just bubbled out of
the earth possesses this peculiarity, and is therefore favourable to
low forms of insect or slug life in winter—the snipe may be found when
the ponds are bound with ice.
Some of the old country folk used to make as much mystery about this
bird as the cuckoo. Because it was seldom seen till the first fogs the
belief was that it had lost its way in the mist at sea, and come inland
by mistake.
Just as in the early part of the year green buds and opening flowers
welcome swallow and cuckoo, so the colours of the dying leaf prepare
the way for the second feathered immigration in autumn. Once now and
then the tints of autumn are so beautiful that the artist can hardly
convey what he sees to canvas. The maples are aglow with orange, the
oaks one mass of buff, the limes light gold, the elms a soft yellow. In
the hawthorn thickets bronze spots abound; here and there a bramble
leaf has turned a brilliant crimson (though many bramble leaves will
remain a dull green all the winter through); the edible chestnut sheds
leaves of a dark fawn hue, but all, scattered by the winds, presently
resolve into a black pulp upon the earth. Noting these signs the
sportsman gets out his dust-shot for the snipe, and the farmer, as he
sees the fieldfare flying over after a voyage from Norway,
congratulates himself that last month was reasonably dry, and enabled
him to sow his winter seed.
“Sceap—sceap!” and very often the snipe successfully carries out the
intention expressed in his odd-sounding cry, and does escape in
reality. Although I could not at first put my theory into practice, yet
I found by experience that it was correct. He is the exception to the
golden rule that the safest way lies in the middle, and that therefore
you should fire not too soon nor too late, but half-way between. But
the snipe must either be knocked over the instant he rises from the
ground, and before he has time to commence his puzzling zig-zag flight,
or else you must wait till he has finished his corkscrew burst.
Then there is a moment just before he passes out of range when he
glides in a straight line and may be hit. This singular zig-zag flight
so deceives the eye as almost to produce the idea of a spiral movement.
No barrel can ever be jerked from side to side swiftly enough, no
hair-trigger is fine enough, to catch him then, except by the chance of
a vast scattering over-charge, which has nothing to do with sport. If
he rises at some little distance, then fire instantly, because by the
time the zig-zag is done the range will be too great; if he starts up
under your feet, out of a bunch of rushes, as is often the case, then
give him law till his eccentric twist is finished.
When the smoke has cleared away in the crisp air, there he lies, the
yet warm breast on the frozen ground, to be lifted up not without a
passing pity and admiration. The brown feathers are exquisitely shaded,
and so exactly resemble the hue of the rough dead aquatic grass out of
which he sprang that if you cast the bird among it you will have some
trouble to find it again. To discover a living snipe on the ground is
indeed a test of good eyesight; for as he slips in and out among the
brown withered flags and the grey grass it requires not only a quick
eye but the inbred sportsman’s instinct of perception (if such a phrase
is permissible) to mark him out.
If your shot has missed and merely splashed up the water or rattled
against bare branches, then step swiftly behind a tree-trunk, and stay
in ambuscade, keeping a sharp watch on him as he circles round high up
in the air. Very often in a few minutes he will come back in a wide
sweep, and drop scarcely a gun-shot distant in the same watercourse,
when a second shot may be obtained. The little jack snipe, when
flushed, will never fly far, if shot at several times in succession,
still settling fifty or sixty yards farther on, and is easily bagged.
Coming silently as possible round a corner, treading gently on the
grass still white with hoar-frost in the shadow of the bushes, you may
chance to spring a stray woodcock, which bird, if you lose a moment,
will put the hedge between him and you. Artists used to seek for
certain feathers which he carries, one in each wing, thinking to make
of them a more delicate brush than the finest camel’s hair.
In the evening I used to hide in the osier-beds on the edge of a great
water-meadow; for now that the marshes are drained, and the black earth
of the fens yields a harvest of yellow corn, the broad level meads
which are irrigated to fertilise them are among the chief inland
resorts of wild fowl. When the bright moon is rising, you walk in among
the tapering osier-wands, the rustling sedges, and dead dry hemlock
stems, and wait behind an aspen tree.
In the thick blackthorn bush a round dark ball indicates the blackbird,
who has puffed out his feathers to shield him from the frost, and who
will sit so close and quiet that you may see the moonlight glitter on
his eye. Presently comes a whistling noise of wings, and a loud “quack,
quack!” as a string of ducks, their long necks stretched out, pass over
not twenty yards high, slowly slanting downwards to the water. This is
the favourable moment for the gun, because their big bodies are well
defined against the sky, and aim can be taken; but to shoot anything on
the ground at night, even a rabbit, whose white tail as he hops away is
fairly visible, is most difficult.
The baffling shadows and the moonbeams on the barrel, and the faint
reflection from the dew or hoar-frost on the grass, prevent more than a
general direction being given to the gun, even with the tiny piece of
white paper which some affix to the muzzle-sight as a guide. From a
punt with a swivel gun it is different, because the game is swimming
and visible as black dots on the surface, and half a pound of shot is
sure to hit something. But in the water-meadows the ducks get among the
grass, and the larger water-carriers where they can swim usually have
small raised banks, so that at a distance only the heads of the birds
appear above them.
So that the best time to shoot a duck is just as he slopes down to
settle—first, because he is distinctly visible against the sky; next,
because he is within easy range; and lastly, his flight is steady. If
you attempt to have ducks driven towards you, though they may go right
overhead, yet it will often be too high—for they rise at a sharp angle
when frightened; and men who are excellent judges of distance when it
is a hare running across the fallow, find themselves all at fault
trying to shoot at any elevation. Perhaps this arises from the
peculiarity of the human eye which draughtsmen are fond of illustrating
by asking a tyro to correctly bisect a vertical line: a thing that
looks easy, and is really only to be done by long practice.
To make certain of selecting the right spot in the osiers over which
the ducks will pass, for one or two evenings previously a look-out
should be kept and their usual course observed; for all birds and
animals, even the wildest wild fowl, are creatures of habit and custom,
and having once followed a particular path will continue to use it
until seriously disturbed. Evening after evening the ducks will rise
above the horizon at the same place and almost at the same time, and
fly straight to their favourite feeding place.
If hit, the mallard falls with a thud on the earth, for he is a heavy
bird; and few are more worthy of powder and shot either for his savoury
flavour, far surpassing the tame duck, or the beauty of his burnished
neck. With the ducks come teal and widgeon and moorhen, till the swampy
meadow resounds with their strange cries. When ponds and lakes are
frozen hard is the best time for sport in these irrigated fields. All
day long the ducks will stand or waddle to and fro on the ice in the
centre of the lake or mere, far out of reach and ready to rise at the
slightest alarm. But at night they seek the meadow where the water,
running swiftly in the carriers, never entirely freezes, and where, if
the shallow spots become ice, the rising current flows over it and
floods another place.
There is, moreover, never any difficulty in getting the game when hit,
because the water, except in the main carriers, which you can leap
across, hardly rises to the ankle, and ordinary water-tight boots will
enable you to wade wherever necessary. This is a great advantage with
wild fowl, which are sometimes shot and lost in deep ooze and strong
currents and eddies, and on thin ice where men cannot go and even good
dogs are puzzled.