Chapter IX: Part 9

Perhaps not many shooting men remember much about the old days of the muzzle-loader, or could recall all the items of the paraphernalia necessary for a fair day's sport. In spite of their drawbacks, wonderful feats were performed by the old guns; and certainly there was a truer ring about the word sport in the good old times. A fancy-dress shooting party, with the sportsmen in the old-time shooting-suits, armed with muzzle-loaders, would be entertaining--if dangerous. How many members of the party would arrive on the scene of action with all the appliances necessary for the firing of a fowling-piece--powder, shot, wads, and caps? And who would know how to load his weapon, even with powder, shot, wads, and caps at hand? The man who did not know how to load would be in a bad way, for, of course, no valets could be allowed on the scene, even supposing they might know more than their masters. Short-tempered men would be exploding perpetually in wrath at the delays caused by the process of loading, while birds were rising and going away--we have heard powerful language addressed even to the modern weapon when it has been responsible for a hitch in shooting. It is shocking even to think of what a short-tempered man might say if he flung away an open box full of copper caps in mistake for an empty case, or if he applied his powder-flask to his lips and swallowed a few drachms of treble strong black powder instead of a few drops of sloe-gin. No doubt some of the party would suffer the misfortune of upsetting their whole supply of shot for the day's sport. Then the short-tempered man sooner or later would break his ramrod--others would shoot ramrods, like arrows, into the air. At the end of the day there would be headaches and black-and-blue shoulders. And what would be the bag?

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Relics of the Great Days

The old-time gunner went out in the morning with all manner of contrivances and implements stowed about his person. He wore a shot-belt for distributing the weight of his lead, he carried neat little magazines, so that he might the more easily handle his copper percussion-caps, and he wore a wallet of leather containing such tools as a nipple-wrench and spare parts--the nipples in the gun might break or blow out. The careful man carried a wad-punch, and in emergency would punch wads for his muzzle-loader out of his felt hat or his neighbour's--what could be a more neighbourly act than to sacrifice a pair of leather gaiters in the cause of wads? A keeper friend treasures many relics of the great days of the old squire--among them a curious little mirror, the glass about the size of your little-finger nail, set at the top of a tiny brass box, small enough to slip into the barrel of a twenty-bore. The old squire would draw this mirror from his waistcoat pocket before the first charge was poured into the muzzle of his gun, dropping it glass upwards down each barrel in turn, so that he could see by the reflected light if they were well cleaned and polished.

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Cleaning a Muzzle-loader

The cleaning of a muzzle-loader was an immense undertaking. First, the barrels were removed from the stocks, then bucketfuls of hot water were forced through them; out would pour a stream of black, liquid filth, having no respect for clothes or person, and smelling abominably. Heated water was used because it cleaned away all the foulness of the black powder, and quickly dried off. After washing, the barrels were fixed in vices carefully padded to prevent injury, and then they were given a hearty polishing inside with a tow-topped rod. Great attention was paid to the locks, which were not so well protected from water as they are to-day--they were removed every now and then, and taken apart by means of a neat little clamp for holding the mainspring. In those days people spoke of how many pounds of shot they had fired--not of how many cartridges. The old-time bags were not to be despised. One keeper, who has been in his present place for forty odd years, told us that he can always remember his last day's shooting with muzzle-loaders, because they bagged the same number of hares as pheasants--218--to say nothing of 324 rabbits. They must have performed some wonderful feats of loading as well as shooting.

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The Knowing Beater

At covert shoots beaters often behave in unaccountable ways; but it is not every day a beater is seen crawling about on hands and knees. A guest at a covert shoot, surprised at such a sight, inquired about the beater's object. "Beg pardon, sir; I thought as 'ow you was the guv'ner," said the beater, rising. A further question as to why the guv'ner should be met on all fours brought this answer: "Well, you see, sir, 'tis this way like--the guv'ner, 'e don't allow no game to git up 'igh, not if 'e can anyways 'elp it. Not 'e, for 'e wops it into any birds as rises 'ardly afore they be got on their wings like. So you see, sir, soon as I thinks I be gittin' dangerous near 'im, I allus reckons to be a bit careful."

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Old Friends

The shepherd and the gamekeeper are men in sympathy, for one is dependent to some extent on the other. In the eyes of the keeper, the shepherd is one of the most important persons on a farm. And where there is not a good understanding between the two men the keeper will suffer loss in game, and the shepherd not only in sheep, but in rabbits. With rabbits to spare, the keeper's first thought is of his friend the shepherd. The shepherd is vigilant by night as well as by day, and may watch the interests of game without detriment to his own charge. And it is a pleasure to the keeper to run his eye over the fold when he passes that way to see if all is well. He comes to the rescue of many a sheep on its back that would have remained on its back until dead without his timely aid; and he saves the shepherd many possible disasters through the flock breaking from the fold, when the sheep might come to destruction by over-feeding on green-stuffs. Through the long nights of the lambing-time the keeper may give the shepherd his company over pipes of fragrant shag, and pots of heart-cheering ale--hands, hearts, and ale alike made warm by the little stove in the shepherd's movable house on wheels. Look well at a shepherd's back, and you are likely to see a keeper's old coat.

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What Shepherds enjoy

Shepherds like their pot of beer--and some of them are wondrously fond of a fight, and so may become useful allies to the keeper when poachers are to be dealt with. We knew a shepherd who would always be especially retained to help the keepers of an estate at times when pheasants were liable to be shot at night. His appointment came about in this way: the head keeper, during the absence of an assistant, had employed the shepherd to watch, and had dosed him with half a gallon of beer to keep the cold out before sending him off on duty. The beer and the night air were not without effect; and when presently a human form came stealthily along in the shadow of a moon-lit ride, the shepherd was in grand fighting trim and spirit. He waited his chance, then sprang like a lion on the intruder, gripped his throat, bore him to the earth, and belaboured him in hearty fashion. He was about to tie him hand and foot when he saw that he was tackling his own master from the mansion, who, having been dining with a neighbour, had chosen to walk home by way of his woods. So impressed was the master with the shepherd's valour on behalf of his pheasants that he gave him a sovereign, and retained him on the night staff at five shillings a night--_and_ half a gallon of beer.

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Lives of Labour

Like most country workers, shepherds and gamekeepers may go through a long life of labour without ever taking a holiday, possibly without thinking of one. We hear of eight-hour days for factory workers and discussions of an ideal work-day of six or even of four hours; but seldom a word is spoken for those country labourers, the length of whose toil is limited only by daylight--when it is not carried on as a matter of course into the night. Farm hands may work through all the days of the year; for where there is stock to be fed work is never-ceasing. Yet it is reasonable to suppose that holidays are as needful to the countryman as to the townsman, and that if the farm labourer or the shepherd were sent away to the sea every year for a fortnight's rest and change, he would work with a new energy that would more than compensate for the work lost. It would be something at least to break the deadly monotony of the daily round, even if the labourer had no ideas for profitably spending a holiday.

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In the Folds

For the shepherd the days and nights of January are heavy with responsibility--he counts himself lucky if he can find time for an hour's sleep. It is wonderful how the shepherd of a large flock knows all the ewes and the lambs over which he now watches. In his lambs he has a personal interest, for there may be a sixpence in his purse for each lamb that lives to be deprived of its tail. The shepherd's knowledge of the lambs surpasses that of the ewes, whom sometimes he deceives; for it is by scent rather than sight that the mother recognises her offspring, while the shepherd believes only what he sees. By fastening the skin of a dead lamb on to an orphan he will induce a bereaved ewe to adopt the orphan, and she will accept, guard, and love it as if it were her own.

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Shepherds' Care

January is to the shepherd what June is to the gamekeeper. There is more than common meaning to the shepherd in the greeting, "A happy and a prosperous New Year." Be luck good or bad, the bleat of the lamb is the sweetest sound of the year to shepherd ears: it means as much as the pee-peep of the pheasant chick to the gamekeeper. Keepers and shepherds are deeply attached to their respective "coops"--a word used by the shepherd for the enclosures, one hurdle square, made for the lambs. The experience of coop life is briefer for the lamb than for the young pheasant. After enjoying a few hours of privacy, the ewe and her lambs are turned into the large general nursery, to fend for themselves among the baa-ing crowd.

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Winter Partridge-driving

Weather makes more difference to partridge-driving than to most forms of shooting. The ideal day comes when the weather is mild, and the air still. Then only can the movements of partridges be controlled with some certainty--not that partridges ever can be driven against their will. In high wind their speed is tremendous, and a hundred birds do not give the chances of ten too tired to swerve. In hard, frosty weather, when the fields are like rough paving-stones, though the day is still, the birds are up and off before the advancing driving-line can shape itself to influence their flight. But in mild, still weather, the soft soil clogs the birds' feet, they are slow to rise, and packs and coveys become split up and their ranks disorganised--to the advantage of the sportsmen.

A mild day may open hopefully enough, but if driving rain comes with blustering wind the sport is spoiled.

On a frosty day, when things have been going badly, the guns may be congratulating themselves as they reach some big turnip-fields for which the birds have been making. A turnip-field may be expected to steady and control the departure and the direction of birds; but in the grip of frost turnips are only a little better than the bare, frozen field. For the leaves, that yesterday made luxuriant cover, to-day are flattened to the ground by the frost. Even the charlock, which may have done so much to make up for the thinness of the turnips, has been shrivelled to a few brown stems. Why the farmer leaves the late-grown charlock untouched is because he knows that before it reaches seed-time the frost will have killed every plant. On a small shoot, frost-flattened turnips may ruin the hope of a full day's partridge-driving. On big shoots frost counts for less, for long drives can be taken. Short drives in winter partridge-driving are seldom profitable--whether a shoot be small or big.

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LONDON, EDWARD ARNOLD.]

The Fear of Snow

By the very poor snow is regarded as among the most terrible calamities of life. Many types of countrymen, rural publicans, postmen, outdoor labourers, and small traders, speak of snow as the worst of all possible weather, leaving the most serious after-effects. And snow means calamity to many wild things. Lucky are the robins of a garden who have a friend to stir the old hot-bed, and turn up the worms from beneath the frozen top-soil; happy the grain-feeding birds who find a rick that has been threshed. Thousands flock to the corn-ricks, and there is food for all--pheasants, partridges, rooks, jackdaws, starlings, sparrows, greenfinches, chaffinches, yellow-hammers, and the bramble-finches, orange, white, and black in plumage. To the holly-trees come the starving thrushes, and in hard weather even the fieldfares will lose their extreme shyness to besiege a holly-tree beside a door. The more delicate redwings die in thousands, though the dying and dead are seldom seen.

To a few the snow means profit--for the hawks there is a carnival of feasting, and the fox finds weak and hungry hares and rabbits an easy prey, if ill-nourished on a diet of tree-bark and withered herbage. As to the pheasants, they are well cared for--and the keeper, in snowy weather, scatters his maize with a liberal hand.

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Hard-Weather Prophets

By many signs wild creatures inform the gamekeeper of the approach of hard weather. The wood-pigeons give him useful warning. In most parts of the country flocks of pigeons take toll of the greens and root-crops--a thousand pigeons may be seen rising from a single field of roots. In mild weather they may return once or twice during a day. When they are seen constantly streaming to the root-fields, those disturbed returning again and again, it is a certain sign that hard weather is near.

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Weather-wise Beasts and Birds

Animals have a reputation as weather prophets--if their prophecies strike the human observer as somewhat obvious. The cat washes her face, and this is commonly held to be a sign of coming rain; in summer it is thought to be a sign of a thunder-storm when cats are remarkably lively. Dogs sometimes bury their bones when rain is in the air--perhaps an inherited instinct to save food against days of bad hunting. Horses by stretching their necks and sniffing the air seem to be scenting distant rain; and donkeys have a way of braying before the storm. Shepherds hold that if sheep turn their tails windward rain will come; and cowherds read the same prophecy when a herd of cows gathers at one end of a pasture, their tails to the wind. Changes in weather mean much to wild life, and we are prepared to believe they are forewarned. A storm may mean the loss of a meal to a fox, a ruined nest to a bird, an end of all things to an insect. The fox has done well that has eaten heartily before the storm. Yet it appears that a change of weather must be near at hand before wild creatures take notice. The pheasant crows before the thunder-storm because he hears distant thunder. The wheatear, a bird nervous of clouds, flies to shelter as the cloud drives up. It is the first touch of cold weather that sets squirrels hiding nuts.

Weather has a marked effect on the moods of wild creatures. There are days when hares or partridges seem overcome by oppression; they move listlessly if disturbed, and lie or sit about as though all energy had gone from them. Thunder in the air may be the cause, or perhaps snow is coming; when the storm has blown over, liveliness is restored, and new life inspires all things. Before a storm, partridges in the stubble-fields set up their feathers, and in cold weather the feathers of many birds have the appearance of being puffed out, so that they look almost twice their usual size. Many creatures feed at an unusually early hour if storms are coming. It is a bad sign when rabbits are out feeding in the fields early on a bright sunshiny afternoon. The birds of the open fields--rooks, starlings, pigeons, or fieldfares--feed hungrily and hastily while rain-clouds overshadow the sky; but it is a sign of good weather when rooks fly to feed far from their roosting-trees, and fly high. Cock pheasants will go to roost early before the storm, choosing low branches, and trees that afford good protection. In bitter weather, even the warm feathers of birds may become ice-bound.

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Green Winters

Between a green and a white winter in England there is a world of difference to wild creatures. There may come day upon day, week upon week, of mist, rain, fog, and blustering winds, of hail, sleet, and furious snow-blizzards--to birds and beasts these are days of prosperity and fatness. Peewits, snipe, woodcock, blackbirds, and thrushes then find food far more plentiful than in the hot dusty days of late summer. Often, in late summer, their breasts are narrowed by leanness to the shape of a boat's keel. But in moist, warm winter days the flesh rises roundly as if it would burst the skin--the breast-bone, no longer up-standing like a bare ridge, is buried almost out of sight in a valley of fat, on the thighs are little hillocks of fat, and the bones of the back cannot be seen or felt for their thick warm covering. But should there come two or three days of frost, which hold through the day and increase their grip on the land by night, then this loaded store of fat vanishes as mist before the sun.

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What Rainy Days bring

A mild open autumn and a green winter also mean much to the farmers and to the gamekeepers; a blessing on many accounts, a curse on others. The farmer groans because his land is so wet and heavy that he cannot sow his winter seeds; the keeper sees the ruination of many a promising day's sport. The keeper gains when there are no frost and snow by having the pleasure of showing bills for corn reduced to a minimum--in a mild winter he will not need half the amount of corn that must be distributed to his birds in hard weather, when they are actually in need of food. What little he gives them in open weather is to keep them together, as natural food is abundant. But a low bill for corn hardly compensates the keeper for rain-spoiled sport, or for day after day of outdoor work in the wet. The work cannot be done in a way to satisfy the keeper--or possibly others. And the rain means that he falls behind with that everlasting tax on his time entailed by keeping rabbits within bounds. After a mild, open winter, by the time the game-shooting season is ended, and coverts are available for rabbit-killing, young rabbits have already made their appearance. The keeper welcomes a short spell of really hard weather in February, so that he may the more easily catch up all the pheasants he needs for penning. Otherwise the kind of winter that best suits him is a dry one--without hard frost.

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Cubs at Christmas

We met a gamekeeper who had been blessed with a litter of fox cubs born about the middle of December--just before the usual mating-time of the foxes. When most of the season's cubs would be born these Christmas cubs would be three months old, and well grounded in the elements of a fox's education. And when the pheasants and partridges began to sit they could save their mother a deal of laborious work--as our friend the keeper found out. In cub-hunting days, there must have been some rude shocks for the puppies of the pack, and even the old stagers of hounds must have been taken aback when they came to close quarters with one of these forward cubs. The keeper caught one, and by a strange chance. He had been expecting a visit from hounds. He knew an earth where he thought that possibly a vixen later on might have a family; not willing to disturb the place by spade-work when stopping it, he stuffed the entrance with sacks. Hounds came and went--and afterwards the keeper visited the earth to recover his sacks. What was his surprise when he found that inside one of the sacks a cub had curled itself comfortably for sleep. Well knowing that if he were to say there was a litter of cubs on his ground at Christmas none would believe him, he put the cub into a capacious pocket. Then when he told the story of his early litter, and was laughed at for his pains, he confounded sceptics by drawing the little fox, alive and uninjured, from his coat-tails.

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Work for Rainy Days

The keeper always has a supply of odd jobs on hand to occupy his time on a soaking wet day, or when a snow-storm rages. He has always plenty to do--but much of his work cannot be done properly in bad weather, and to work out of doors on a wet day may be as much a waste of time as to work indoors on a fine day on matters of no moment. It would be foolish to go ferreting in heavy rain--nets become soaked, rabbits will not bolt, and digging for ferrets in soft mud is heart-breaking work; at the end of the day, while there may be a few rabbits that look as if they have been bathing in mud, there is all the tackle to be dried for the next day. Then again, it would be sheer waste of time to stop rabbit-burrows when snow has freshly fallen, for half the holes would be hidden, and the work would have to be done over again. It pays to wait until the next day, when rabbits have been out to feed and the holes are seen easily.

When he decides to stay under cover the keeper hardly knows where to begin, as he looks about his store-houses and sheds. Here are traps that should be cleaned and overhauled, broken chains to be mended, bent parts to be carefully straightened--a little judicious filing and a drop of oil are needed here and there to make all parts work together smoothly and swiftly. Snares must be overhauled and sorted, the sound ones to be neatly shaped so that the noose stays open ready for use, and each one must be fitted with its string, tealer, and plug. A supply of new snares may be made. Plugs and pegs may be shaped, for holding snares and traps, from a length of solid ash which the keeper knows to be well seasoned, so that it will not crack when he drives it into stony ground with his heavy, steel-shod heel. For months he has treasured that piece of ash--and terrible was the vengeance that he vowed on his wife when she dared to hint that it would serve nicely for her copper fire.

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The Old Lumber

The wet day brings the chance for doing various little carpentering jobs, long neglected. The keeper may have set himself the task of making a new hand-barrow before the coming of another pheasant-rearing time--a barrow for carrying the coops, two at a time, with the hen and precious chicks within, where a horse and cart cannot pass through the coverts. Perhaps he remembers a day when the crazy handle of the old barrow snapped off and upset two coops of his best birds. Then a wet day is a good day for sorting coops, and putting apart for professional treatment those beyond the keeper's makeshift craft. He can set about painting the whole ones. Now and again he must look to his ferret-hutches, and fit new wire-netting to the fronts if any meshes are rotten with rust--should the ferrets escape there is no telling what may happen. And guns are never the worse for an extra special examination, and a thorough cleaning and oiling. An all-round tidying-up of his varied assortment of tackle certainly makes for a temporary improvement in the look of his work-places--but, as it has been with every clearance, the same old lumber is once more reprieved. "You see," says the keeper, "it might come in useful some time."

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When Foxes mate

Soon after Christmas the gamekeeper hears the barking of foxes at night, and he well knows the reason. The foxes are searching for mates. And here is one of many reasons why hounds in these days fail to find foxes in woods never hitherto drawn blank. Hunting and shooting have disturbed the quiet of the coverts, the underwood harvest is going forward, the supply of fox-food is shorter than at any other time, and is most hard to catch; so foxes generally have forsaken their haunts, finding lodging in out-of-the-way places which offer some chance of peace and quietness. Followers of hounds have much to learn about the ways of the fox in January. They go from one blank covert to another, cheerfully riding an intervening couple of miles, while all the time the fox is lurking in a dell or a hedgerow only two hundred yards from the first covert drawn. Yet a suggestion that the dell or the hedgerow should be tried meets with silent scorn. This might be expected from people who hunt to ride, or people new to the hunting-field; but it does not become the experienced to pin all their faith to the well-known coverts. In a southern county hounds have disturbed no fewer than twelve foxes together--probably a collection of suitors for the pad of one or two eligible vixens.

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A Keeper's Dreams

On a Sunday after Christmas we paid a visit to an old keeper, who, on his own confession, had not dined wisely on the good fare provided by his wife on Christmas Day. Into our sympathetic ears he poured the strangest tale of the dreams that he had dreamed. The first began pleasantly enough, but ended in a nightmare. He was one of a party shooting in his best wood, and he was ever in the hottest part of the hottest corner, but each time he threw up his gun to shoot the crowds of pheasants, the gun fell all in pieces. Never, he said, had he known such a nightmare; though some of the other dreams that succeeded were bad enough.

One was to the effect that on an important occasion all the birds of his coverts utterly refused to rise and rocket, and when he pressed them with beaters he found that one and all had turned into foxes. This dream merged into one in which the foxes in his preserves were so numerous that they outnumbered and overpowered the hounds, and then attacked the Master, who was eaten. And there was a dream in which the old keeper found that he had changed places with his employer, whom he roundly abused for the mistakes he made in placing stops and managing the beaters. The climax of this was the unkindest cut of all. The gamekeeper dreamt that his employer, far from bearing him any ill-will for the abuse, sent to his cottage on Christmas Eve a large tin of tobacco, beneath the lid of which was a ten-pound note. This worthy old man has had many queer dreams in his time--if we are to believe him. He is ready to confess, for the sake of the story following the confession, that he has never really mastered the art of shooting driven partridges. But one night he dreamt that he had brought off the most masterly right and left, and from far and near congratulations on his brace poured upon him. Then he awoke to find himself in his own familiar chair by the fireside, in the chill dawn of a winter morning, and the local doctor, who was also a sportsman, was telling him how there had arrived safely in the room upstairs a brace of fine young keepers.

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A Death-bed Vision

We can vouch for the truth of this fox story: An old keeper--the keeper of a shoot where partridges were preferred to foxes--lay dying. It was late in May, when the partridges were beginning to sit. Suddenly he called for his two sons and told them of a dream. In a certain burrow in a certain wood adjoining his partridge fields he had dreamt of a litter of cubs. And he refused to be comforted until his sons had gone forth to verify his dream. In due time they came home with enough evidence that the dream was of true things to allow the old man to give up the ghost with an untroubled mind.

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Christmas Sport

The partridge at Christmas is at his best--as a test of reputations. In this respect there is a world of difference between the slow, simple yellow-legged bird of September and the partridge of December. To bag a brace from a September covey is satisfactory to a sportsman. To get a bird with each barrel at an October drive is no mean thing. But to bring off a double event at Christmas partridges is to make a reputation. And it is to experience a feeling of goodwill towards the whole world. For Christmas and cold hands excuse a multitude of misses.

The birds whirl over the line of guns like brown clusters of bullets. And if the sportsman is tested, the gamekeeper's reputation hangs also in the balance; his highest art is called for if he is to drive birds in the desired direction. Whether or not his birds have been much harassed by previous driving makes a difference to his chances. Success will be appreciated, for sportsmen keenly relish a selected partridge drive as a foretaste to a pheasant shoot. When the drive is over and the pheasants' turn has come, they feel in slightly faster but certainly smoother water.

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Cunning Cock Pheasants

No bird is more artful than an old cock pheasant, or better able to take care of himself. At this season a solitary cock may be observed night after night roosting in some isolated tree, out in the wind-swept fields, and far from the sheltered coverts. Yet you may hunt this bird all day, high and low, in vain. When, on the way home, you pass his dark form on a lonely perch, you feel he deserves to rest in peace. Sometimes the old cock is over-cunning, or too confident in the safety of his retreat. He may allow one to approach within a few feet, although he certainly heard footsteps in time to make his escape. A certain keeper can tell many tales of the inglorious ends of his cunning cock pheasants, but most of these episodes are better forgotten.

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A Dish of Greens

Winter flocks of pigeons are here to-day and gone to-morrow, travelling far in search of food. If they find little or no beech-mast or acorns, they are forced early in winter to a diet of salad. It must be a relief to the wandering hosts when they come to a place where acorns are in plenty. In hard winters, turnips supply a great part of wood-pigeons' food; and it used to be held that from this food their flesh acquired too pronounced a flavour, so that nice judges, who at other times thought them a delicate dish, would reject them. One old-time sportsman held that the green leaves of turnips gave a peculiar and very palatable flavour to the flesh of larks and partridges. In this connection we always think of the story told by Gilbert White of a neighbour who shot a ring-dove as it was returning from feed and going to roost. "When his wife had picked and drawn it, she found its craw stuffed with the most nice and tender tops of turnips. These she washed and boiled, and so sat down to a choice and delicate plate of greens, culled and provided in this extraordinary manner."

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Christmas Shoots

Shooting parties in the week following Christmas have a festive air. As at the hall, so in the keeper's cottage, the air is charged with the Christmas spirit. Ten o'clock on any morning soon after Christmas Day may find the keeper entertaining a crowd of beaters at the expense of his own private cellar, and the good things from the cellar are served hot and spiced. In hats and caps are seasonable tokens--sprigs of mistletoe and holly. The keeper himself does not wear button-holes, but should his children make a garland of holly for the collar of his old retriever, he will leave it for the brambles to pull away. The guns turn up late--they have been dancing through the night; when all are met, in the brief greetings, in the distribution of cartridge-bags, and in the inquiries about weather and the possible bag, there is a note of unusual cheeriness.

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Woodcock Talk

At a Boxing Day shooting-lunch the talk among the guns was upon the ways and wiles of woodcock. One spoke of his long bill, with its sensitive nerves, which tell the bird what he has found when the bill forages among the dead leaves; speculating as to whether he lived by his powers of suction only. Another wondered if the eating qualities of woodcock legs were really improved by pulling out the sinews. The question arose: Is the man who shoots a woodcock entitled to its pen-feathers, or is the man who first finds and secures those delicate trophies best entitled to stick them in the band of his hat? Woodcock provoked many controversies. Is there any secret in the proper roasting of them? Would the law absolve a man who shot his fellow when shooting 'cock?--and would the fact that he shot his bird as well as his man make any difference? How many people could swear to have seen the mother woodcock carrying her young; and exactly how does she carry them? How many of the home-bred birds leave us in autumn? What proportion of woodcock comes in from abroad, and what is the difference between the foreigners and the genuine Britishers? In answer to the last question, a suggestion was made that the foreign birds were large and light in colour, but the British birds small and dark. Around this point arose a discussion, and the keeper was called in to give his opinion. "It ain't nothin' at all to do with Englishmen and foreigners," he said. "It be whether they be cocks or hens, and 'tis the large light uns that be the hens."

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Spare the Hens

Most gamekeepers hold the killing of a hen pheasant after Christmas to be a moral crime. And perhaps most genuine sportsmen feel a twinge of the conscience when they pull a trigger at a hen in New Year days--irrespective of the host's permission. Of course, when the orders are to spare hens, the man who kills or even tries to kill one does something that the keeper will not forget--he loses caste for ever in the keeper's eyes; whereas the man who is not greedy to take advantage of an impromptu permission to shoot hens ensures for himself a niche in the keeper's good graces.

It is true, there are hens and hens. Only a churlish keeper would not admire the man who stops one of those skyscraping hens, of the sort bagged by ordinary gunners about once in a lifetime. But the order, "Shoot hens if they are real tall ones," alarms a keeper--unless he has full confidence in the guns of a party. When the word has been given, it is wonderful how many hens are "real tall ones." There are excuses which must be accepted: for in certain conditions of light, when the golden moment for pressing the trigger is within grasp, it is almost impossible to distinguish hens from cocks--length of tail is then the most reliable evidence.

We remember a knowing old keeper who laid a plot to ensure at least a merry start to a Christmas shoot, when "Cocks only" was the order of the day. This worthy, when catching up birds for his pens, had gathered together some twenty superfluous cocks. These, a dishevelled and more or less tailless crew, he carried just before starting-time to a dell thick with spruce, chosen doubtless for decency's sake: and on a plausible pretext lined out his guns between the dell and a wood. But he forgot there was no natural inducement to the birds to fly in the face of evident danger--and all the birds broke away out of gunshot, and so suddenly as to make their recent history all too evident.

* * * * *

A Free-and-Easy

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.

* * * * *

A Keeper's Ghost-Story

The gamekeeper, perhaps, believes less in ghosts than other countrymen. He is not afraid to keep vigil in the loneliest wood, though well known to be haunted by a headless spectre. He carries a gun and his dog is at heel, so it may be that the ghosts are afraid of the keeper. We know a house where great alarm was caused by the ghostly ringing of bells. Watches were set, and one watcher after another made report of a flitting figure, clad in white, that roamed the corridors. At last the keeper was called in to deal with the ghost. He took up his watch, his trusty gun, loaded with buckshot, in his hand. "There I bid," he relates, "till jest on twelve o'clock--when all of a sudden the old baize door at the end of the stone passage opens, of its own accord like, and in slips the ghost. I ups wi' m' gun, and I sez, 'Be you the ghost?' sez I. 'And if ye moves,' sez I, 'I shoots.' Three times I speaks, gruffer and gruffer each time. And then I makes a rush for the ghost--wot turns out arter all to be Mary the 'ouse-maid." "What did you do with Mary?" we asked the story-teller. "Lor' love ye, I took and married 'er out o' the way."

This same keeper let us into the secret of his shattered faith in ghosts. As a young man he and a fellow under-keeper had been told off to watch the carriage-drive for night poachers. In a jocular moment the head-keeper warned them not to be afraid if they should see the estate ghost--the headless body of an old coachman driving a pair of galloping horses harnessed to a hearse. Naturally, the two young keepers, as the night wore on, fell to talking about the headless apparition. Presently, sure enough, hoofs were heard, and a hearse came lumbering down the drive. The watchers crouched low in the heap of dead bracken in which they were hidden. Asked, an hour later, if they had seen the poachers, "No," they said bravely; "we only saw the old fellow without a head, driving his hearse." "Well," said the head-keeper, chuckling, "if you'd looked inside his hearse you would have found it full of corpses--rabbits' corpses! Me and Bill, we ketched the ghost, whiles he was drinking your 'ealth."

* * * * *

Old Friends in Velveteen

Many gamekeepers we have known. Looking back down the years we can summon to view a serried regiment of the servants of sport; large men and small, rough and gentle, brown-clad men, some in velveteen, others in rough tweed, most of them in stout leggings, all with the keen eyes of watchmen, bronzed by the sun, beaten by the weather; good men and true, every man of them. The best of them are strong, upright, fearless, full of confidence; men who neither beg favours nor grant them; set their own standards; keep their own counsels; take no false oaths, whatever the provocation of the poacher; who, in preserving game, have no enmity against other living creatures; who are all-round sportsmen and lovers of fair play. At the end of the long line, farthest from view yet most distinct, stands an old man with silver hair, with light blue eyes, and a face kindly, yet sharp as a hawk's, the keeper who was first to show us how to hold a gun.

Many fine stories this old man would tell, leaning over a gate, gun in hand, of Master this and Master that, uncles and such-like, even then old men to a boy's eyes, yet still called, by the older keeper, by their familiar names. "I mind the time," he would begin, his eyes twinkling: and then he would ramble off into the history of some wild affray with gipsies or with poachers, enough to make a boy's hair stand on end.

One time that often came to his mind was when Master Charles plagued the life out of him to be taken, at night, through a bedroom window, by way of a ladder, on a hunt for poachers; and how at last he yielded to entreaty, though it was as much as his place was worth if Master Charles's guardian got wind of the affair. So he chose a bright moon-lit night, when he was tolerably certain that no poachers would venture forth; whistled beneath Master Charles's window, upraised a ladder, and got the young gentleman safely to ground, in nothing more than nightshirt, greatcoat, and bedroom slippers. Off they went together, and it was the keeper's heart that beat fastest. Arrived in the Long Walk, what should they see but two poachers with bows and arrows, shooting the pheasants in their sleep. The keeper's first idea was to send the young master back to bed; but he was not to be denied this grand adventure: and with a yell and a bound he was among the poachers before the keeper could say Jack Robinson. It was a desperate affair, not only for the poachers, but more particularly for the gamekeeper; but he still lives to tell the tale, with ever more wonderful variations.

* * * * *

The Converted Shepherd

A favourite story of another old friend tells how he found the cure for a notorious poacher. It was in the days before the Ground Game Act, and a farmer had complained, as well he might, of rabbits that had cleared every blade of a field of oats, and were beginning to attack some wheat in the next field. The keeper set many traps and wires. His cottage was a long way from the wheat-field: but the cottage of the poacher, a shepherd, was near at hand. Knowing that the shepherd would in any case keep an eye on the captured rabbits, the keeper went to him, and frankly invited him to remove all those caught overnight, and keep them safe until he should come himself in the morning. The keeper, of course, could tell where a rabbit had been caught; and no doubt the shepherd knew this, for he delivered up each night's catch to a rabbit. And he confessed, at the end of a week's campaign, that the confidence placed in him so unexpectedly had broken his heart of its love of poaching for ever.

* * * * *

A Final Story

All keepers are shamed when sportsmen go home from their preserves with empty bags. To have in a party a shooter "who never shot noth'n' all day long" reacts on the keeper's fame. We noticed that a crafty keeper friend would always scheme to place an old colonel well forward of the line of guns; and as the colonel was never seen to add to the bag, we asked for an explanation. "Well, ye see, it be like this 'ere," came the answer. "I knows as 'e can't shoot, and 'e knows it; but I knows and 'e knows that if 'e be put forward 'e be likely to get a shot at a rabbit what's stopped to think. And 'e knows that I knows that 'e will pay somethink 'andsome when 'e can go 'ome an' tell 'is missus as 'ow 'e ain't bin an' disgraced 'isself agin. So I puts 'im forward; and every time 'e shoots a rabbit what's stopped to think, it reminds 'e of I."

* * * * *

Careful Wives

With many gamekeepers we have known many gamekeepers' wives. Strong-minded, capable women as they are, most keepers are wise enough to regard them as Ministers of Finance, religiously handing over all their gain in coins. A shilling a week, perhaps, is handed back again by way of pocket-money, besides an allowance of 'baccy, out of housekeeping funds. We have known more than one keeper who never would have had a shilling had it not been for his wife; and we have known more than one keeper's wife who would never fail to keep her hand on every shilling that her good-man brought home.

* * * * *

"What Her was Like"

One old friend, old Henry, made up his mind to revolt against his wife's cupidity. Coming home one winter night after a shoot, at which he had been so lucky as to pocket a couple of pounds, the temptation to conceal them from his good dame was irresistible. He buried the coins beside an old ash-stump in one of his woods--well beyond scenting distance from his cottage. He knew from many a past experience that if he left a farthing in his pockets overnight it would be gone before morning. That night no sleep came to him. His conscience was troubled. He turned and tossed; as his good-wife put it, "He carried on like, so as he couldn't sleep hisself, nor wouldn't let I." At last the good woman, who had drawn his pockets in vain, put a straight question: "'Enry," said she, "what _be_ up with 'ee?" Then 'Enry confessed: he told how he had buried two pounds beside the ash-stump. And then the two of them rose, in the middle of that winter night, and walked out into the wood until they stumbled on the ash-stump, and they dug until they found the money. As poor Henry used to say, in days when no good-wife remained to take his gains, "That'll tell ye a little what her was like."

INDEX

Acorns, 234, 235
August, 159

Badger, 121, 122, 254, 255
Barren birds, 162
Beaters, 41, 233, 275;
compensation for wounded, 244
Birds, at mating-time, 60
Blackbirds, 123
Broody hens, 73
Bullfinches, 122, 123

Cats, 29, 30, 96, 123, 133, 263, 264
Cattle, in woods, 112, 113
Chalk-pits, 255, 256
Christmas shooting, 294, 295
Clues, 161
Cornfields, inhabitants of, 163;
sport in, 167
Covert-shooting, 262, 263, 271
Crows, 49
Cubbing, 181, 182
Cubs, 8, 9, 59, 149, 150, 151, 178, 190, 191, 286
Cub-snatching, 89, 90

Dog-dealing, 199
Dogs, for ratting, 98;
poachers', 16, 17
Dog-washing, 153
Dormice, 208, 230
Doves, 156, 157
Duck, 159

Fear and flight, 46, 47
Feathers, 130
Ferrets, 95
Fieldfares, 37
Foxes, 8, 9, 60, 149, 245, 248;
and pheasants, 124, 246;
and ferrets, 256;
and rabbits, 45;
and snares, 245, 247;
how to keep from nests, 153;
in corn, 167;
on shooting days, 268, 269;
trapping, 23, 24;
turned down, 119
Foxgloves, for dog-washing, 155
Fur, changes of colour, 25, 26

Game, and motors, 125;
and wire, 135, 136;
and water, 142
Gamekeeper, 6, 11, 17, 26, 30, 41, 81, 82, 103, 131, 132, 141,
144, 208, 227, 228, 287, 289, 290-292, 297-304;
and marriage, 13, 14;
and new berth, 14;
appearance of, 210;
as advertiser, 14;
as chorister, 103;
as cook, 6, 116, 117;
as dog-dealer, 199;
as gardener, 6, 9-11;
cottage and pets of, 3, 4;
dress of, 104, 300;
dinner of, 7;
ethics of, 5;
larder of, 5-7;
holidays of, 12, 13, 209-211;
in North and South, 15;
position, wages, privileges, and perquisites of, 1-3
Gipsies, 215

Hares, 58, 59, 208;
and small holdings, 265;
curious accidents to, 202, 203, 225
Harvest mice, 167, 208, 209
Hawks, 18, 61, 62, 105
Hedgehogs, 166, 173, 206, 231
High birds, 189
Homely medicines, 7, 8
Honeysuckle, cause of accidents, 204, 205
Hounds, 145, 259, 260;
"finding," 190, 191
Hunting, 249
Hurdle-making, 77, 78

Jackdaws, 111
Jays, 160

Landrail, 157, 191, 192
Leverets, 65
Long-netting, 219, 220

Magpies, 31, 49
"Marking," 193, 194, 195
Moles, 261
"Mothering," 117
Moucher, 257
Muzzle-loaders, 272

Nesting-sites, 73, 80, 81
Nightjar, 125, 126
Nutters and gamekeeper, 207, 208

Owls, 105, 205

Partridge, flying with broken wing, 201
Partridge-driving, 279, 280, 292
Partridges, 60, 61, 92, 93, 114, 133, 134, 140;
and dry summer, 133;
and foxes, 114;
and grassland, 93;
and June, 137, 141;
and peasants, 93;
and peewits, 92, 93;
and policemen, 214;
and rain, 139;
cocks and hens, 129;
French, 75-77;
hatching of their eggs, 139;
perseverance of, 115, 116;
young and old, 129
Pheasant and young, 117, 118
Pheasants, 10, 40, 41, 43, 53, 54, 55, 56, 68, 71, 73, 119, 124,
138, 155, 156, 185, 187, 269, 293, 296;
food-bill, 225;
rearing by hand, 85-89
Pied birds, 199
Pigs, 198
Poachers, 15, 57, 180;
dogs of, 16, 17;
traps to catch, 111, 112;
weapons of, 260
Policemen, sporting, 214, 298
Prospects, 161-163
Puppies, 146, 147, 197, 252

Rabbits, 124, 257;
and snares, 33, 34;
as perquisites, 5;
in autumn, 211-213;
pressed for food, 44, 45;
when fattest, 236
Rats, 22, 94, 99, 131, 222
Rat-catching, 90, 91
Ratting, 98, 100, 102;
without ferrets, 100
Red-legs, 141
Retrievers, 148, 206, 207, 270, 271
Ride-trimming, 172
Rooks, 47, 66

Scent, 238;
and retrievers, 148
Shepherd, the, 276-279, 302
"Shocks," shooting among, 192, 193
Sight, of birds and beasts, 37, 38
Sleep, of birds and beasts, 34
Snares, 33, 34
Snow, 281
Sparrow-hawks, 10, 62
Sporting terms and others, 63-65
Squirrels, 27, 29
Starlings, roosting, 204
Stoats, 172, 236, 240;
and weasels, the difference, 254;
yellow and white of, 25
Stock-doves, 62
Swedes, warts on, 163

Tipping, 2, 243, 304
Trapping, 22, 23, 24, 26, 176, 178
Traps, 24, 25, 26, 32, 33
Truffles, 206

Underwood, 226, 227, 241, 242

"Velveteens," 104
Vermin, lists of, 18, 19, 20, 26

Walking-up partridges, 180
Warts, from shooting, 297
Wasps, 264, 265
Water, and game, 142-145;
for birds and beasts, 133
Weasels, 25, 173, 254
Weather-wisdom, 282, 283
Wines, home-made, 183, 184
Wire, and game, 135, 136, 253
Woodcock, 195, 196, 197, 295;
and woodcock owls, 195, 196
Woodman, 79, 80
Wood-pigeons, 4, 5, 63, 157, 293