Chapter I

MR. PUNCH WITH ROD AND GUN

Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed. Words printed in italics are noted with underscores: _italics_.

PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR

Edited by J. A. HAMMERTON

Designed to provide in a series of volumes, each complete in itself, the cream of our national humour, contributed by the masters of comic draughtsmanship and the leading wits of the age to "Punch", from its beginning in 1841 to the present day

MR. PUNCH WITH ROD AND GUN

THE HUMOURS OF FISHING AND SHOOTING

_WITH 193 ILLUSTRATIONS_

BY CHARLES KEENE, JOHN LEECH, PHIL MAY, GEORGE DU MAURIER, L. RAVEN-HILL, C. SHEPPERSON, CECIL ALDIN, BERNARD PARTRIDGE, W. J. HODGSON, A. S. BOYD, TOM BROWNE, REGINALD CLEAVER, CHARLES PEARS, H. M. BROCK, AND OTHERS.

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT WITH THE PROPRIETORS OF "PUNCH"

THE EDUCATIONAL BOOK CO. LTD.

THE PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR

_Twenty-five volumes, crown 8vo, 192 pages fully illustrated_

LIFE IN LONDON COUNTRY LIFE IN THE HIGHLANDS SCOTTISH HUMOUR IRISH HUMOUR COCKNEY HUMOUR IN SOCIETY AFTER DINNER STORIES IN BOHEMIA AT THE PLAY MR. PUNCH AT HOME ON THE CONTINONG RAILWAY BOOK AT THE SEASIDE MR. PUNCH AFLOAT IN THE HUNTING FIELD MR. PUNCH ON TOUR WITH ROD AND GUN MR. PUNCH AWHEEL BOOK OF SPORTS GOLF STORIES IN WIG AND GOWN ON THE WARPATH BOOK OF LOVE WITH THE CHILDREN

PREFACE

As a fisherman MR. PUNCH is in the best of his humours. He makes merry over the weaknesses of those who follow the craft of Old Izaak, always with the slyest of genial manners. The angler's habit of exaggerating the size of his catch--his patience or his impatience when the fish won't bite--the conscious or unconscious ridicule he has to endure from onlookers when he is unsuccessful--the proverbial thirst that attacks the fisherman, whether he catches anything or not--MR. PUNCH has a keen eye for all such incidentals and presents them so jovially that nobody laughs over them more heartily than his victims themselves do.

Leech, Charles Keene, Phil May, Du Maurier, Raven-Hill, Bernard Partridge, G. D. Armour--most of the best-known PUNCH artists, old and new, have revelled in the humours of both fishing and shooting.

He gets as much laughter out of those who handle the gun. The infinite variety of jokes he cracks about the bad shot, the man who can't hit the birds, or is always hitting the dogs or his companion guns, is amazing. He does not spare the lady shooter, and jests of the peril in which the rest of the field are placed when she is out after the birds or rabbits; and he gets a good deal of fun out of the Frenchman's alien notion of sport.

OBSERVATIONS ON GROUND BAIT.--Boys are often taught, though they never learn, to regard fishing as a cruel amusement, when nevertheless angling, at least as most commonly practised in the Thames, is universally admitted to be particularly and pre-eminently the _gentle_ craft.

* * * * *

EPITAPH ON AN ANGLER.--"Hooked it."

* * * * *

THE DUFFER WITH A SALMON-ROD

FROM "THE CONFESSIONS OF A DUFFER"

No pursuit is more sedentary, if one may talk of a sedentary pursuit, and none more to my taste, than trout-fishing as practised in the South of England. Given fine weather, and a good novel, nothing can be more soothing than to sit on a convenient stump, under a willow, and watch the placid kine standing in the water, while the brook murmurs on, and perhaps the kingfisher flits to and fro. Here you sit and fleet the time carelessly, till a trout rises. Then, indeed, duty demands that you shall crawl in the manner of the serpent till you come within reach of him, and cast a fly, which usually makes him postpone his dinner-hour. But he will come on again, there is no need for you to change your position, and you can always fill your basket easily--with irises and marsh-marigolds.

Such are our country contents, but woe befall the day when I took to salmon-fishing. The outfit is expensive, "half-crown flees" soon mount up, especially if you never go out without losing your fly-book. If you buy a light rod, say of fourteen feet, the chances are that it will not cover the water, and a longer rod requires in the fisherman the strength of a Sandow. You need wading-breeches, which come up nearly to the neck, and weigh a couple of stone. The question has been raised, can one swim in them, in case of an accident? For _one_, I can answer, he can't. The reel is about the size of a butter-keg, the line measures hundreds of yards, and the place where you fish for salmon is usually at the utter ends of the earth. Some enthusiasts begin in February. Covered with furs, they sit in the stern of a boat, and are pulled in a funereal manner up and down Loch Tay, while the rods fish for themselves. The angler's only business is to pick them up if a salmon bites, and when this has gone on for a few days, with no bite, influenza, or a hard frost with curling, would be rather a relief. This kind of thing is not really angling, and a Duffer is as good at it as an expert.

Real difficulties and sufferings begin when you reach the Cruach-na-spiel-bo, which sounds like Gaelic, and will serve us as a name for the river. It is, of course, extremely probable that you pay a large rent for the right to gaze at a series of red and raging floods, or at a pale and attenuated trickle of water, murmuring peevishly through a drought. But suppose, for the sake of argument, that the water is "in order," and only running with deep brown swirls at some thirty miles an hour. Suppose also, a large presumption, that the Duffer does not leave any indispensable part of his equipment at home. He arrives at the stream, and as he detests a gillie, whose contempt for the Duffer breeds familiarity, he puts up his rod, selects a casting line, knots on the kind of fly which is locally recommended, and steps into the water. Oh, how cold it is! I begin casting at the top of the stream, and step from a big boulder into a hole.

Stagger, stumble, violent bob forwards, recovery, trip up, and here one is in a sitting position in the bed of the stream. However, the high india-rubber breeks have kept the water out, except about a pailful, which gradually illustrates the equilibrium of fluids in the soles of one's stockings. However, I am on my feet again, and walking more gingerly, though to the spectator my movements suggest partial intoxication. That is because the bed of the stream is full of boulders, which one cannot see, owing to the darkness of the water. There was a fish rose near the opposite side. My heart is in my mouth. I wade in as far as I can, and make a tremendous swipe with the rod. A frantic tug behind, crash, there goes the top of the rod! I am caught up in the root of a pine-tree, high up on the bank at my back. No use in the language of imprecation. I waddle out, climb the bank, extricate the fly, get out a spare top, and to work again, more cautiously. Something wrong, the hook has caught in my coat, between my shoulders. I must get the coat off somehow, not an easy thing to do, on account of my india-rubber armour. It is off at last. I cut the hook out with a knife, making a big hole in the coat, and cast again. That was over him! I let the fly float down, working it scientifically. No response. Perhaps better look at the fly. Just my luck, I have cracked it off!

Where is the fly-book? Where indeed? A feverish search for the fly-book follows--no use: it is not in the basket, it is not in my pocket; must have fallen out when I fell into the river. No good in looking for it, the water is too thick, I _thought_ I heard a splash. Luckily there are some flies in my cap, it looks knowing to have some flies in one's cap, and it is not so easy to lose a cap without noticing it, as to lose most things. Here is a big Silver Doctor that may do as the water is thick. I put one on, and begin again casting over where that fish rose. By George, there he came at me, at least I think it must have been at me, a great dark swirl, "the purple wave bowed over it like a hill," but he never touched me. Give him five minutes law, the hook is sure to be well fastened on, need not bother looking at that again. Five minutes take a long time in passing, when you are giving a salmon a rest. Good times and bad times and all times pass, so here goes. It is correct to begin a good way above him and come down to him. I'm past him; no, there is a long heavy drag under water, I get the point up, he is off like a shot, while I stand in a rather stupid attitude, holding on. If I cannot get out and run down the bank, he has me at his mercy. I do stagger out, somehow, falling on my back, but keeping the point up with my right hand. No bones broken, but surely he is gone! I begin reeling up the line, with a heavy heart, and try to lift it out of the water. It won't come, he is here still, he has only doubled back. Hooray! Nothing so nice as being all alone when you hook a salmon. No gillie to scream out contradictory orders. He is taking it very easy, but suddenly he moves out a few yards, and begins jiggering, that is, giving a series of short heavy tugs. They say he is never well hooked, when he jiggers. The rod thrills unpleasantly in my hands, I wish he wouldn't do that. It is very disagreeable and makes me very nervous. Hullo! he is off again up-stream, the reel ringing like mad: he gets into the thin water at the top, and jumps high in the air. He is a monster. Hullo! what's that splash? The reel has fallen off, it was always loose, and has got into the water. How am I to act now? He is coming back like mad, and all the line is loose, and I can't reel up. I begin pulling at the line to bring up the reel, but the reel only lets the line out, and now he's off again, down stream this time, and I after him, and the line running out at both ends at once, and now my legs get entangled in it, it is twisted all round me. He runs again and jumps, the line comes back in my face, all slack, something has given. It is the hook, it was not knotted on firmly to start with. He flings himself out of the water once more to be sure that he is free, and I sit down and gnaw the reel. Had ever anybody such bad fortune? But it is just my luck!

I go back to the place where the reel fell in, and by pulling cautiously I extract it from the stream. It shan't come off again; I tie it on with the leather lace of one of my brogues. Then I reel up the slack, and put on another fly, out of my cap--a Popham. Then I fish down the rest of the pool. Near the edge, in the slower part of the water, there is a long slow draw; before I can lift the point of the rod, a salmon jumps high out of the water at me,--and is gone! I never struck him, was too much taken aback at the moment; did not expect him then. Thank goodness, the hook is not off this time.

The next stream is very deep, strong and narrow; the best chance is close in on my side. By Jove! here he is, he took almost beside the rock. He sails leisurely out into the strength of the stream; if he will come up, I can manage him, but if he goes down, the water is very swift and broken, there are big boulders, and then a sheer wall of rock difficult to pass in cold blood, and then the Big Pool. He insists on going down; I hold hard on him, and refuse line. But he leaps, and then--well he _will_ have it; down he rushes, I after him, over the stones, scrambling along the rocky face; great heavens! _the top joint of the rod is loose_; I did not tie it on, thought it would hold well enough. But down it runs, right down the line; it must be touching the fish. It is; he does not like it, he jiggers like a mad thing, rushes across the Big Pool, nearly on to the opposite bank. Why won't the line run? The line is entangled in my bootlace. He is careering about; I feel that I am trembling like a leaf. There, I knew it would happen; he is off with my last casting-line, hook and all. A beauty he was, clear as silver and fresh from the sea. Well, there is nothing for it but a walk back to the house. I have lost one fly-book, two hooks, a couple of casting-lines, three salmon, a top joint, and I have torn a great hole in my coat. On changing my dress before lunch, I find my fly-book in my breast pocket, where I had not thought of looking for it somehow. Then the rain comes, and there is not another fishing day in my fortnight. Still, it decidedly was "one crowded hour of glorious life," while it lasted. The other men caught four or five salmon apiece; it is their red letter day. It is marked in black in my calendar.

* * * * *

To WELL-INFORMED PISCATORIALS.--_Query._ What sort of fish is a Nod?

_Note._ A Nod is a sea-fish, and is, probably, of the limpet tribe. This we gather from our knowledge of the Periwinkle, known in polite circles as the 'Wink. The value of the Nod has come down to us in the form of an old proverb, "A Nod is as good as a 'Wink," and this no doubt originated the query to which we have satisfactorily replied.

* * * * *

"Cheese."

"What are yer tryin' ter catch--mice?"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

_Novice._ "_Rather!_"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

_Small Boy_ (_not having had a rise all the morning_). "Wha's catchin' fesh?!"]

* * * * *

_Youthful Angler._ "Get away! Why, me and this 'ere kid's catched scores of 'em wi' a worrum!"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

"Well, I _really_ caught _two_! But they were quite young, poor little things, and so they _didn't know how to hold on_!"]

* * * * *

_Angler._ "Hush! Keep _back_! Keep _back_! I had a beautiful rise just then; shall get another directly."]

* * * * *

_Party in Waders_ (_on the shallower side, with nice trout on_). "Now then, you idiot, bring me the net, can't you, or he'll be off in a second!"]

* * * * *

_Donald._ "Aweel, sir, it's no that muckle odds i'th' sawmon,--but thae fowk up the watter is bigger leears than we are doon here!"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

_Mr. Smith_ (_from Glasgow_). "Indeed, and ye would, Angus."

_Bauldry._ "Mebbe, Maister Smuth, if we wad have had a dram afore ye wass lettin' doon yer line, we micht have grappit that muckle fush!"]

* * * * *

_Dripping Angler._ "You don't suppose this is a perspiration, do you?"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

_Little Angler_ (_to her refractory bait_). "Keep still, you tiresome little thing! If you don't leave off skriggling, I'll throw you away, and take another!"]

* * * * *

_Old Gent_ (_greeting friend_). "Hullo, Jorkins! 'Been fishing? What did you catch?"

_Jorkins_ (_gloomily_). "Ha'-past six train home!"]

* * * * *

_Brown_ (_to Jones, who has, for the first time, been trying his hand at fishing from a boat_). "Well, old chap, what sort o' sport?"]

* * * * *

_The Major_ (_on his way to try for the big trout, and pondering on his fly-book_). "Now I wonder what he'll take? What d'you say, Smithers, eh?"

_Smithers_ (_pulling up with alacrity_). "Take, sir? Well, sir, thanky, sir, sup o' whisky, sir, for choice!"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

_Ardent Angler_ (_turning up his flask_). "No, dry as a lime-kiln--haven't had a drop these two hours!"]

* * * * *

_Keeper._ "I dessay they are, sir, but any other fly with a touch o' red in it would do as well."]

* * * * *

"No, I'm afraid I've not!"

"It's a _very_ interesting article, sir. It mentions my name several times!"]

* * * * *

_Piscator No. 2._ "Leave off!! What a precious disagreeable chap you are! You come out for a day's pleasure, and you're already wanting to go home!"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

_Piscator._ "Yes, I like a day at this time of year. Get all the _water to myself_, you see."

_Yokel._ "Ah! And mayhap have a sup o' the whisky to spare for somebody else, governor?"]

* * * * *

_Bob._ "I've heard a lot one time and another, old man, but the only one I remember is--_'Pass the flask'!_"]

* * * * *

_Second Jolly Angler_ (_diving into creel_). "Oh, yes, here they are, all right, and here's the whisk--but--tut-t-t, by Jove!--I've forgotten the fishing-tackle!!"

_First Jolly Angler._ "Oh, ne' mind--we'll get along quite well without _that_!"]

* * * * *

REBUS IN ARDUIS

Tell me, stranger, ere I perish,
Of the fish men call the trout,
Ere I lose the hopes I cherish,
Summer in and summer out,
Hopes of hooking one and landing
Him before the day is done,
Waist deep in the water standing,
From the dawn to set of sun.

Tell me, is his belly yellow?
_Is_ he spotted red and black?
_Does_ he look a splendid fellow
When you turn him on his back?
Is there any fly can rise him,
Any hook can hold him tight?
Is one able to surprise him
Any time from morn to night?

Stranger, years I've passed in trying
Every artifice and lure,
Standing, crawling, wading, lying,
Casting clean and long and sure.
Empty yet remains my basket,
Cramped and weary grows my fist,
Stranger, in despair I ask it,
Does the trout in truth exist?

* * * * *

HAGIOLOGY.--_Patron of a Fishmarket._--St. Polycarp.

* * * * *

_Piscator Senex._ "Oh, yes; very good sport."

_P.J._ "Bream?"

_P.S._ "No!"

_P.J._ "Perch?"

_P.S._ "No!"

_P.J._ "What sport, then?"

_P.S._ "Why, keeping clear of the weeds!"]

* * * * *

_Boy._ "You'd come out a great lot dirtier than you went in!"]

* * * * *

_Second Ditto_ (_with ditto_). "Glorious! I sha'n't forget that nibble we had just after lunch, as long as I live!"

_Both_ "Ah!!"]

* * * * *

_Lady Visitor_ (_who has been listening to Piscator's story_). "I didn't know that trout grew as large as that!"

_Piscator's Wife._ "Oh, yes, they do--after the story has been told a few times!"]

* * * * *

A REFLECTION BY AN ANGLER.--Nature's aristocracy. Mortal man being but a worm, is therefore by nature of _gentle_ birth.

* * * * *

NET PROFIT.--A fisherman's.

* * * * *

PISCATORIAL.--Shakespearian angler's song to his bait: "Sleep, gentle, sleep."

* * * * *

* * * * *

_Dobson._ "I should _hope_ not. Listen to old Smith--he's smashed his rod!"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE GENTLE CRAFT

(_By Our Own Trout_)

How gentle is the fisherman who sits beside the brook,
And firmly puts the wriggling worm upon the pointed hook
How pleasant for the hapless trout to find, from some strange cause,
The fly conceals a something that makes havoc with its jaws!

Dame Juliana Berners wrote a book, in which she said
The blessing of St. Peter rests upon the angler's head;
She bid him not be "ravenous in taking game,"--I wish
She'd ever asked if he deserved the blessings of the fish.

We were a happy family, as merry as could be,
"Diversified with crimson stains," as Pope has said. Ah me!
There came the cruel fisherman, his flies had deadly gleam,
And not a soul remains but me to mourn within the stream.

What recked my little troutlets of the Palmers, Spinners, Duns,
They headlong rushed, and then got caught, my innocent young sons!
They're cooked--excuse an old trout's tear!--but hard it is to feel
A monster's ta'en your family for matutinal meal.

The "honest angler," Walton, cried, and maundered night and day,
But Byron puts the matter in a very different way;
He said that Isaac should have hook fixed firmly "in his gullet,"
And oh! that I might be the trout that he suggests should pull it.

* * * * *

_Jones (not enthusiastic, and a non-smoker, wearily)._ "Flies!!!"]

* * * * *

Uncle George, just returned from a morning's fishing, recounts how he landed some of the "most magnificent trout ever taken in these waters," and his audience anticipate much satisfaction from the contents of his basket.]

* * * * *

_Brown._ "Fishing."

_Lunatic._ "Caught anything?"

_Brown._ "No."

_Lunatic._ "How long have you been there?"

_Brown._ "Six hours."

_Lunatic._ "_Come inside!_"]

* * * * *

_Keeper (about to receive smaller tip than meets the occasion)._ "Ah! makes yer put down a shillin' when yer means 'alf-a-crown, sometimes, I dessay, sir!"]

* * * * *

_The Laird._ "Oo, aye, a gran' fesh enoo, but I'd be gay an' glad if I saw my twa-and-saxpenny flee weel oot o' his mooth!"]

* * * * *

_Miss Hookem._ "Oh, please do go on! It'll be the fish of my life!"

_Jones_ (_who is not a champion swimmer_). "M-mine too!"]

* * * * *

AN ACUTE ANGLER.--The judicious Hooker.

* * * * *

ANGLER'S MOTTO.--_Carpe diem._ A carp a day.

* * * * *

THE ANGLE OF INCIDENCE.--When you're fishing, and tumble into the water.

* * * * *

WALTON'S LIFE OF HOOKER.--Is this another name for Izaak Walton's _Complete Angler_?

* * * * *

In fishing for conger eels, it is sometimes convenient to have a spare boat.]

* * * * *

_Honest Rustic._ "Well, thank y', sir, but me and my mate, not seein' a howner about, we've ta'en what there were inside."]

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE COMPLEAT DUFFER

I have fished in every way,
Fished on every kind of day,
But my basket still remains _in statu quo_,
Not a stickleback will rise,
Not a gudgeon as a prize
To the quite amazing flies
That I throw.

When I try the purling brook
Many trout just have a look
At my fly, or at the minnow that I spin,
With fishy leer they squirm
Off, and my belief is firm
That I'd better use a worm
On a pin.

Wherever I get leave,
Still I fish from morn to eve,
Though I never--hardly ever--rightly cast,
With a body soaking wet,
With a mind intent and set
On success achieving yet
At the last.

In my coat of wondrous tweed,
And on every wandering weed,
Hooks and flies unnamed invariably I fix.
_Here_ I cannot land a fish--
I can only hope and wish
I may creel a goodly dish
In the Styx.

* * * * *

_Donald._ "Hang!"--(_Giving way_)--"I shall tamm the boat if you will, and the trouts--and the loch too!"

[_Feels better!_

]

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

_Q._ What is the difference between a dunce and an angler?

_A._ One hates his books and the other baits his hooks.

* * * * *

ENTHUSIASTIC.--That indefatigable angler, Trollinson, never forgets his craft. Even in writing to you, he is sure to drop a line.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

_Podgson (a recently joined disciple of the gentle craft)._ "Ah, now I flatter myself that I played that fellow with considerable skill, and landed him without the net, too!"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

AN ORIGINAL CORNER MAN.--_The Complete Angler._

* * * * *

A BROTHER OF THE ANGLE.--A fellow mathematician.

* * * * *

When is a fisherman like a Hindoo? When he loses his cast.

* * * * *

_Angler._ "Oh, all right. Whose is that water up there round the bend?"

_Irate Landowner._ "Don't know: not mine. But this is."

_Angler._ "Very well. I'll wait till that flows down here!"]

* * * * *

_Angler._ "There! Tut-t-t-t--confound you! I should ha' settled that fish if you hadn't come bothering about! Three people coming to dinner without notice, and only chops in the house! You'd better go and tell my wife what you've done"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

_'Arry_ (_not quite so innocent as he would appear_). "Preserved water! And is all the fish _pickled_, then? Bless'd if I've seen any live 'uns about."]

* * * * *

_Mr. B._ "What for?"

_Mrs. B._ "Why, I forgot to order the fish for dinner."]

* * * * *

"Ain't ye got no teeth of yer own?"

"I got some, but there ain't none of 'em opposite one another."]

* * * * *

_Jarvis._ "Ah, sir, it's only an old fryin'-pan! But that will be useful, y'know, sir, when we do catch him!"]

* * * * *

A PUNT POEM

I'm a fisherman bold,
And I don't mind the cold,
Nor care about getting wet through!
I don't mind the rain,
Or rheumatical pain,
Or even the tic-douloureux!

I'm a fisherman damp,
Though I suffer from cramp,
Let weather be foul or be fine,
From morning till night
Will I wait for a bite,
And never see cause to repine!

I'm a fisherman glad,
And I never am sad;
I care not to shoot or to hunt;
I would be quite content
If my whole life were spent
From morning to night in a punt!

I'm a fisherman brave,
And I carol a stave
In praise of the rod and the line!
From the bank, or a boat,
Will I gaze on my float--
What life is so happy as mine?

* * * * *

_Little Cockney._ "Why, they 'aven't touched me!"

_Big Scotchman._ "Maybe they have na noticed ye yet!"]

* * * * *

THE GREATEST ANGLE OF ELEVATION.--Fishing off the top of Shakespeare's Cliff.

* * * * *

BAIT AND WHITEBAIT

The "gentle" craft some people angling name;
The "lobworm" might more truly call the same.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE LAY OF A SUCCESSFUL ANGLER

The dainty artificial fly
Designed to catch the wily trout,
Full loud _laudabunt alii_,
And I will join, at times, no doubt,
But yet my praise, without pretence,
Is not from great experience.

I talk as well as anyone
About the different kinds of tackle,
I praise the Gnat, the Olive Dun,
Discuss the worth of wings and hackle
I've flies myself of each design,
No book is better filled than mine.

But when I reach the river's side
Alone, for none of these I wish,
No victim to a foolish pride,
My object is to capture fish;
Let me confess, then, since you ask it--
A worm it is which fills my basket!

O brown, unlovely, wriggling worm,
On which with scorn the haughty look,
It is thy fascinating squirm
Which brings the fattest trout to book,
From thee unable to refrain,
Though flies are cast for him in vain!

Deep gratitude to thee I feel,
And then, perhaps, it's chiefly keen,
When rival anglers view my creel,
And straightway turn a jealous green;
And, should they ask me--"What's your fly?"
"A fancy pattern," I reply!

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

_John._ "Ah, but think o' the delight, Maria, when you do get a fish! Lor' bless us, my dear, have you forgotten the day when you hooked me?"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

ANECDOTE BY IZAAK WALTON.--One Piscator, whom I will not further name, had a certain acquaintance who, through the credit he had gotten by his wealth, worth, and wit, came to be made a magistrate. Whereupon Piscator goes me to the river and catches a fish, which having brought home, he sends to the new-made justice with a note, saying, "Inasmuch, sir, as you are now promoted to the condition of a beak, I do send you a perch."

* * * * *

_Customer_ (_in a great hurry_). "A small box of gentles, please. And look sharp! I want to catch a 'bus!!"]

* * * * *

A SPORTIVE SONG

_A Sojourner in North Britain goes Salmon-fishing with a New Young Woman._

Far from the busy haunts of men,
Mid hazel, heather, gorse,
You are the Beauty of the glen,
And I the Beast, of course.
I fetch and carry at your wish,
I wait your beck and nod,
And yet your soul is with that fish,
Your ardour in your rod.

He struggles hard, gives now a lunge,
Like boxer in the ring,
And now he executes a plunge
That makes your tackle spring;
And then again he quiet lies,
As if in cunning thought
Of how to lose this worst of flies
That he so gladly caught.

Anon we see his silver back
Rush madly up the stream,
And then he takes another tack,
An effort that's supreme;
He tries to leap the rocky wall
That environs the pool.
How hot that rush! How low that fall!
While you are calm and cool.

You utter not a word; your wrist
Must surely be of steel;
For, let your captive turn or twist,
You never spend the reel.
But with your eye fast fixed you stand--
Diana with a hook--
Determined that good grilse to land,
And bring your fly to book.

Well done! He weakens! With the gaff
I'm ready for the prey.
And now you give a little laugh
That means "He must give way!"
"Look out!" you cry. I do look out,
And then I lose my head.
You've missed the fish without a doubt,
But captured me instead!

* * * * *

A POINT OF TRESPASS.--_Irate Owner of this side of water._ "Are you aware that you are trespassing in this water, young man?"

_Sharp Youth._ "But I'm not in the water, sir."

_Irate Owner_ (_more irate_). "Confound you, but you've just taken a fish out!"

_Sharp Youth._ "Yes, sir. The fish was trespassing!"

* * * * *

_Enthusiastic Fisherman._ "What a bore! Just like my luck. No sooner have I got my tackle ready, and settled down to a book, than there comes a confounded bite!"

* * * * *

_Native._ "Fish! I should rather think there was. Why, the water's simply saturated with 'em!"]

* * * * *

_Piscator No. 2._ "Not yet--I only come here last Wednesday!"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

_Tramp_ (_hungrily_). "What, all the lot, mister! Well, he shouldn't ave done that if _I_ could 'ave 'elped it!"]

"Now will I hence to seek my lovely moor!"

_Titus Andronicus_, Act II., Sc. 3.

]

* * * * *

THE BIRDS AND THE PHEASANT

(_After Longfellow_)

I shot a partridge in the air,
It fell in turnips, "Don" knew where;
For just as it dropped, with my right
I stopped another in its flight.

I killed a pheasant in the copse,
It fell amongst the fir-tree tops;
For though a pheasant's flight is strong,
A cock, hard hit, cannot fly long.

Soon, soon afterwards, in a pie,
I found the birds in jelly lie;
And the pheasant, at a fortnight's end,
I found again in the _carte_ of a friend.

* * * * *

ODE ON A DISTANT PARTRIDGE

(_By an Absent-minded Sportsman_)

Well, I'm blest! I'm pretty nearly
Speechless, as I watch that bird,
Saving that I mutter merely
One concise, emphatic word--
What that is may be inferred!

English prose is, to my sorrow,
Insufficient for the task.
Would that I could freely borrow
Expletives from Welsh or Basque--
One or two is all I ask!

Failing that, let so-called verses
Serve to mitigate my grief
Doggerel now and then disperses
Agonies that need relief.
(Missing birds of these is chief!)

Blankly tramping o'er the stubbles
Is a bore, to put it mild;
But, in short, to crown my troubles,
_One_ mishap has made me riled,
Driv'n me, like the coveys, wild.

For at last I flush a partridge,
Ten yards rise, an easy pot!
Click. Why, bless me, where's the cartridge?
Hang it! there, I clean forgot
Putting _them_ in ere I shot!

* * * * *

_Tom._ "Sh! Don't say anything, there's a good fellow! Take a shot at mine!!"]

* * * * *

THE FOOL WITH A GUN

(_To the Tune of the "Temptation of St. Anthony"_)

There are many fools that worry this world,
Fools old, and fools who're young;
Fools with fortunes, and fools without,
Fools who dogmatise, fools who doubt,
Fools who snigger, and fools who shout,
Fools who never know what they're about,
And fools all cheek and tongue;
Fools who're gentlemen, fools who're cads,
Fools who're greybeards, and fools who're lads;
Fools with manias, fools with fads,
Fools with cameras, fools with tracts,
Fools who deny the stubbornest facts,
Fools in theories, fools in acts;
Fools who write Theosophist books,
Fools who believe in Mahatmas and spooks;
Fools who prophesy--races and Tophets--
Bigger fools who believe in prophets;
Fools who quarrel, and fools who quack;
In fact, there are all sorts of fools in the pack,
Fools fat, thin, short, and tall;
But of all sorts of fools, the fool with a gun
(Who points it at someone--of course, "in fun"--
And fools around till chance murder is done)
Is the worsest fool of them all!

* * * * *

* * * * *

"I tell yer wot it is, Sam! If this fool of a dog is a going to stand still like this here in every field he comes to, we may as well shut up shop, for we shan't find no partridges!"]

* * * * *

"Well, of course I have."

"What did you aim at?"]

* * * * *

THE FIRST OF SEPTEMBER

The First of September, remember
The day of supremest delight.
Get ready the cartridge, the partridge
Must fall in the stubble ere night.

The breechloader's ready, and steady
The dog that we taught in old days;
He's firm to his duty, a beauty
That cares for but one person's praise.

He's careful in stubble, no trouble
In turnips, he's keen as a man;
But looks on acutely, and mutely
Seems saying, "Shoot well, if you can!"

They flash from the cover--what lover
Of sport does not thrill as they rise
In feathered apparel? Each barrel
Kills one, as the swift covey flies.

So on through the morning, still scorning
All rest until midday has past,
When lunch should be present, and pleasant
That _al fresco_ breaking of fast.

One pipe, then be doing, pursuing
The sport that no sport can eclipse;
So homeward to dinner, a winner
Of praise from the fairest of lips.

* * * * *

_Host._ "Give my friends what they want, and send the rest to market."

_Snob._ "Ah, sell it, do you? With my game, don'tyer-know, I give my friends some, and send the rest to the hospitals."

_Host._ "And very natural and proper, I'm sure. The only thing I've seen you shoot to-day was a beater!"]

* * * * *

_Wife_ (_out for the first time_). "Then, for goodness sake, keeper, call that silly dog of yours! Can't you see he's standing right in my way?"]

* * * * *

[_N.B._--_He only meant to lighten the general depression, but he wasn't invited again._

]

* * * * *

_Sportsman_ (_to his wife, who is rather a wild shot._) "By Jove! Nelly, you nearly got us again, that time! If you are not more careful, I'll go home!"

_Old Keeper_ (_sotto voce_). "It's all right, squire. Her bag is full of nothing but _blank_ 'uns!"]

* * * * *

(_B. Jonathan, Esq., having missed a hare, the dog drops to the shot_)

_B. J._ (_scornfully_). "Call that a good dawg? I reckon he ain't worth candy! When the beast's sitting, he stands and looks at him; and when he runs away, he lies down and looks at me!"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

_Gentleman._ "That looks a well-bred dog."

_Owner._ "I should think he was well-bred. Why, he won't have a bit er dinner till he's got his collar on!"

* * * * *

SS. PATRICK AND PARTRIDGE

"Now at the birds, me boy, let dhrive!"
Says Mike, exhorting Dan.
"That's how we'll keep the game alive,
By killing all we can!"

* * * * *

_Mr. Meanman_ (_frightfully indignant_). "What! cut his head off! Why, man, it would ruin the sale of the carcase!"]

* * * * *

_Lady_ (_with gun_). "Am I holding the thing right?"]

* * * * *

_Snobson._ "Oh dear, yes; I've often shot at his house."

_Sportsman._ "Ever hit it?"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

A ZOOLOGICAL CONUNDRUM.--_Intending Tenant_ (_to_ Lord Battusnatch's _Head Keeper_). And how about the birds? Are they plentiful, Gaskins?

_Gaskins._ Well, sir, if the foxes of our two neighbours was able to lay pheasants' eggs, I should say there'd be no better shooting south o' the Trent.

* * * * *

SAD FATALITY TO ONE OF A SHOOTING PARTY ON THE MOORS.--On returning home, after a most successful day's sport, just as he entered the garden he was taken from life by a snap-shot.

* * * * *

_Second Friend._ "Not half so wild as our host will be, if it keeps on like this."]

* * * * *

AT A DOG-SHOW.--_First Fancier._ That's a well-bred terrier of yours, Bill.

_Second Fancier._ And so he ought to be. Didn't the Princess of Wales own his great grand-aunt!

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE ANATOMY OF SHOOTING

MEN WE NEVER MEET

1. The man who makes no excuses for shooting badly; such as--1. The light was in his eyes; 2. He was bilious; 3. There was something wrong with his cartridges; 4. Too many cigars the night before; 5. Some particular eatable or drinkable taken the night before; 6. Or that morning; 7. He was afraid of hitting that beater; 8. We were walking too fast; 9. He hadn't got his eye in; 10. Or his eye was out; 11. He didn't think it was his bird; 12. It was too far off; 13. He always thought there was something the matter with _that_ gun.

2. The man whose dog hasn't a good nose.

3. The man who can't "shoot a bit sometimes."

4. The man who hasn't some particular theory as to--1. The very best gun; 2. Cartridges; 3. Charges of powder and shot; 4. Best tipple to shoot on; 5. Best sort of boots; 6. Gaiters; 7. And equipment generally.

5. The man who doesn't change the said theory every season.

6. The man who hasn't sometimes said he couldn't shoot after lunch.

7. Or that he could shoot better after lunch.

8. The man who on your remarking that your friend George Lake is a good shot, doesn't answer that you should see Billy Mountain (or someone else) and then you would know what shooting really was.

9. The man who hasn't a friend who "can't hit a haystack."

10. The friend who owns it.

11. The man who doesn't like to be considered a good shot.

12. The man who, being a bad shot, doesn't comfort himself by thinking he knows a worse.

13. The man who hasn't made a longer shot than anyone in the company.

14. The man who, having made it, doesn't tell the story.

15. And who, having told the story, doesn't tell it more than once.

Finally, _Mr. Punch_ is never likely to meet the man who, having read the above, will not own that it is strictly true of those who pursue the pleasant pastime of shooting when, as the eminent Burton puts it, "they have leisure from public cares and business."

* * * * *

_Count._ "Magnifique! I have only shot one! Mais voilà! Qu'il est beau! The King partridge! Regardez ses plumes! N'est ce pas?"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

_His Host_ (_clutching his arm_). "Good Heavens!--You're not going to shoot that fox?"

_Brigson._ "My dear f'ller! wh'-wh'-why not? This is the last day I shall have this season--and I--I feel as if I could shoot my own mother-in-law--if she rose!"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

SONG OF "THE MISSING SPORTSMAN"

How happy could I be on heather,
A-shooting at grouse all the day,
If only the birds in high feather
Would not, when I shoot, fly away!

* * * * *

* * * * *

"On the contrary. I think you have two most valuable watch dogs."]

* * * * *

"ONCE HIT TWICE SHY."--_Guest_ (_taking keeper aside_). "Look here, Smithers"--(_gives half-a-sov._)--"Put me out o' gunshot of the Squire. He does shoot so precious wild, and my nerve isn't what it used to be!"

* * * * *

_Husband_ (_prevaricating_). "Ye--yes, I bagged----"

_Wife_ (_sniffing_). "And _high_ time you did! I should say by the--oh! it must be cooked to-day!"

[_It came out afterwards the impostor had bagged it at the poulterer's_

]

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

LE SPORT

["The French sportswoman is not ardent, but just now _Le Sport_ is the thing."--_Daily Paper._]

Ze leetle bairds zat fly ze air
I vish zem not ze 'arms--
Zat is not vy ze gun I bear
So _bravement_ in mine arms;
'Tis not zat I vould kill--_Ah! non!_
It is zat I adore
Ze noble _institution_
Ve call in France _Le Sport_.

And zen ze costume! Ah! ze 'at!
Ze gaitares! Vot more sweet
For ze young female-chaser zat
Do 'ave ze leetle feet?
Ze gun?--I fear 'im much, and oh!
'E makes my shouldare sore,
But yet I do 'im bear to show
'Ow much I love _Le Sport_.

Ze leetle partridge 'e may lay
'Is pretty leetle eggs,
Ze leetle pheasant 'op away
Upon 'is leetle legs,
Ze leetle 'are zat run _si vite_
I do not vish 'is gore--
But vile mine ankles zey are neat
I'll cry, "_Ah! Vive le Sport!_"

* * * * *

_Beater._ "Zo I were spread out, and t'other man 'e told I, I were too wide!"]

* * * * *

_Keeper._ "'Twasn't even that, Master Bob. 'Twas firing in a totally wrong direction."]

* * * * *

* * * * *

LOVE AMONG THE PARTRIDGES

September's first, the day was fair,
We sought the pleasant stubble,
The birds were rising everywhere,
The old dog gave no trouble.
And still my friend missed every shot,
While I ne'er fired in vain.
I said, "Perchance the day's too hot?"
He cried, "Amelia Jane!"

We shot throughout the livelong day,
We always shoot together,
And yet in a disgraceful way,
He never touched a feather.
I said, "How is it that you muff
Your birds, my boy? Explain."
He sighed and said, "I know it's rough
But, oh, Amelia Jane!"

Quoth I, "Amelia Jane may be
As plump as any partridge,
But that's no reason I can see
Why you should waste each cartridge."
He shot the dog, then missed my head,
But caused the keeper pain;
Then broke his gun and wildly fled
To join Amelia Jane!

* * * * *

_Friend_ (_from town_). "O, I say, old fellow, let's go back and have a game o' billiards, or else I'm quite sure I shall shoot the other one! They keep getting in the way so!"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

Hot work

"Hare up!"]

* * * * *

THE GROUSE THAT JACK SHOT

(_A Solemn Tragedy of the Shooting Season_)

This is the Grouse that _Jack_ shot.

This the friend who expected the Grouse that _Jack_ shot.

This is the label addressed to the friend who expected the Grouse
that _Jack_ shot.

This is the Babel where lost was the label addressed to the friend,
&c.

This is the porter who "found" the "birds" in the Babel where lost
was the label, &c.

This is the dame with the crumpled hat, wife of the porter who
"found" the "birds," &c.

This is the cooking-wench florid and fat of the dame with the
crumpled hat, &c.

This is the table where diners sat, served by the cooking-maid
florid and fat of the dame with the crumpled hat, &c.

This is the _gourmand_ all forlorn, who dreamed of the table where
diners sat, served by the cooking-wench florid and fat, &c.

This is the postman who knocked in the morn awaking the _gourmand_
all forlorn from his dream of the table, &c.

And this is _Jack_ (with a face of scorn), thinking in wrath of
"directions" torn from the parcel by railway borne, announced by
the postman who knocked in the morn, awaking the _gourmand_ all
forlorn, who dreamed of the table where diners sat, served by the
cooking-wench florid and fat of the dame with the crumpled hat,
wife of the porter who "found" the "birds" in the Babel where lost
was the label addressed to the friend who expected the Grouse that
_Jack_ shot!

MORAL.

If in the Shooting Season you some brace of birds would send
(As per letter duly posted) to a fond expectant friend,
Pray remember that a railway is the genuine modern Babel,
And be very very careful _how you fasten on the label_!

* * * * *

"Not a thing! I only fired once, and that was more out of spite than anything else!"]

* * * * *

"WEDDED TO THE MOOR"

The sportive M.P., when the Session is done,
Is off like a shot, with his eye on a gun.
He's like _Mr. Toots_ in the Session's hard press,
Finding rest "of no consequence." Could he take less?
But when all the long windy shindy is o'er,
He, like _Oliver Twist_, is found "asking for _Moor_!"

* * * * *

A HINT IN SEASON

Remember, remember,
The month of September--
Partridges, rabbits, and hares;
Any hamper you send,
My breech-loading friend,
Put "Paid" on the label it bears.

* * * * *

SPORTIANA.--A young sportswoman in the Highlands is reported to have shot "six fine stags through the heart." Must have been "young bucks." Of course, she used Cupid's bullets on her murderous career amid the harts.

* * * * *

_Beginner_ (_excitedly, the first shot at the end of a blank morning_). "How's that, John?"

_John._ "Well, ye seem to 'ave 'it 'im, sir!"]

* * * * *

ON A DANGEROUS SHOT

(_By Mr. Punch's Vagrant_)

He seemed an inoffensive man
When first I saw him on the stubble;
Made on the self-same sporting plan
As those who shoot with ease or trouble!
The average men, in fact, whose skill
(A thing of luck far more than habit)
Tempts them at times to go and kill
The hare, the partridge and the rabbit.

He rushed not and he did not lag;
He kept the line when we were walking.
He had a useful cartridge-bag;
And was not prone to useless talking.
He smoked an ordinary pipe;
His guns were hammerless ejectors;
He wore a fairly common type
Of patent pig-skin leg-protectors.

He told a story now and then,
Some ancient tale of fur or feather,
That sportsmen love to smile at when
On Autumn days they come together.
In fact, he seemed to outward view
In all his gunned and gaitered glory,
Just such a man as I or you,
Except--but that's another story.

Except (I'll tell it) when he shot:
Then, then he did not care a cuss, sir;
He blazed as if he hadn't got
The least regard for life or us, sir.
Our terrors left him unafraid;
He tried for full-grown birds and cheepers,
And, missing these, he all but made
A record bag of guns and keepers.

* * * * *

_Head keeper_ (_sotto voce_). "Beg pardon, my lord, the London train's late this morning with the pheasants--we must have half an hour to get 'em into the coverts!"]

* * * * *

AT THE QUICKSHOT CLUB.--_First Sportsman._ Well, I killed four rabbits with two barrels last September.

_Second Sportsman._ And I had five partridges on one drive, three coming towards me, and two with fresh cartridges over the hill.

_Third Sportsman_ (_wearily_). But nobody comes up to my slaying of an elephant in Assam with a pea rifle. Would you like to hear the yarn?

[_The Third Sportsman is immediately left alone._

* * * * *

Mr. Punch has pleasure in directing the attention of sportsmen of his own limited stature to an advertisement in the _Field_ announcing the sale of an estate, "including fifty acres of sporting woods, together with a small gentleman's residence."

* * * * *

"Well, I didn't miss _that_ one, at all events!"

"No, sir. They _will_ fly into it, sometimes!"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

_Duncan._ "Ay, sir, he'll come down--when he's hungry."]

* * * * *

_Young Newstyle_ (_justly indignant, to Squire Oldacres_). "There!--'Knew how it would be when you _would_ bring out those beastly dogs. _Always in the way, hang 'em!_"]

* * * * *

_Miss Maud._ "I would, but I don't think I should like to see a lot of poor birds shot!"

_Jack._ "Oh, if you go with Fred, your feelings will be entirely spared!"]

* * * * *

_Master Pipler_ (_after much thought_). "Of course, they are far too valuable to be killed and eaten, pa. But isn't it rather dangerous to frighten them so much? I heard ma saying they cost you at least a guinea a brace!"]

* * * * *

_Old Hand._ "Now, for the last time, for goodness' sake don't shoot any of us, or the dogs, or yourself."

_Novice_ (_sarcastically_). "What about the birds?"

_Old Hand._ "Oh, you won't hit them!"]

* * * * *

Mr. Muggs leaves for the north. Mr. M. as he appeared, half a minute before the train started, minus half of his luggage, and with the guard shouting to him to take his seat!]

* * * * *

"Pheasant-shooting in some districts will suffer through lack of
birds. The wet weather has been fatal to the young
broods."--_Shooting Reports._

_Head Keeper_ (_on the First_). "Werry sorry, my lord, but this 'ere's th' on'y one as we've manisht to rare. Will I put it up for your lordship?"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

_Johnnie Bangs._ "I say, old man, do you mind taking these cartridges out? I've never used a gun before, don't you know!"]

* * * * *

_Jack._ "Only safe place, don't you know. Governor's giving the tenants a day to finish the covers. They've just about finished two dogs and a beater already!"]

* * * * *

THE "CHEEP" OF THE PARTRIDGE

_Perdix Cinerea loquitur_

'Tis the voice of the sportsman. I hear him complain,
"All my hopes of big bags have been damped by the rain.
With birds shy and scarce, flooded furze and no stubble,
To beat dripping covers is scarce worth the trouble."
Aha! The wind's ill that blows nobody good,
True, the wet has proved fatal to many a brood,
Parent birds have made moan over eggs swamped and addled,
When our covers were lakes in which ducks might have paddled,
But partridges drowned when they'd scarce chipped the shell,
Yet,--yes, on the whole, 'tis perhaps just as well.
Water! Better than fire; and a cold in the head
Is not _quite_ so bad as a dose of cold lead.
Prime time for swell vassals of powder and shot!
What's September to them, without plenty to pot?
Oh! won't they fume, as they look out this morn
On these damp furzy swamps, and yon drenched standing corn?
Poor grumbling gun-maniacs! Isn't it fun?
In the game "Birds _v._ Barrels" we birds will score one
Just for once, I should hope. In this beautiful bog
I am safe, I should fancy, from man, gun, and dog.
They may bag a few birds on the skirts of the wheat,
But I don't think _this_ cover will pay 'em to beat.
St. Partridge be bothered! St. Swithin's _my_ Saint,
May his rainy rain last, _I_ shall make no complaint.
No! Farmers and sportsmen may grumble together--
For my part, I rather approve of the weather.

[_Left chuckling._

* * * * *

Birds coming straight towards you sometimes offer a very unsatisfactory shot.]

* * * * *

OVER THE STUBBLE.--_Mr. Winchester Poppit_ (_at the luncheon by the coppice_). I must say that I like to see partridges driven.

_Captain Treadfoot Trotter_ (_who believes in shooting over dogs_). No doubt, Mr. Poppit, you'd like to see the poor birds driven in a coach, or a tandem, or a curricle; or, if I may judge by the way you sent my pointer round the last field, ye'd wish to put 'em in a circus!

* * * * *

WILD SPORTS.--_The Sportsmen_ (_from the wood_). "Hullo, Tonsonby! You've had a good place. We've heard you blazing away all the afternoon. How many have you bagged?"

_Tonsonby_ (_a town man_). "O, bother your tame pheasants. I've tree'd a magnificent tom cat here, and had splendid sport, but I can't hit him. You come and try!"

* * * * *

"Well, Count! Any sport this morning?"

"Hélas! mon ami, very sad sport! I 'ave shot three beautiful misses!"

[_He means he has missed three beautiful shots._

]

* * * * *

_Miss Nimrod._ "Oh, dear! he's pointing! Which end do I shoot at?"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

_Mr. O'Fluke_ (_whose shooting has been a bit wild_). "Very odd, Robins, that I don't hit anything?"

_Robins_ (_dodging muzzle_). "Ah, but a'm afeard it's ower good luck to continue, sir!"]

* * * * *

_Mr. Mangold._ "Oh! That's what _I_ call _shootin'_!"]

* * * * *

_Friend._ "I wouldn't. I'd reserve him for the Waterloo Cup."]

* * * * *

_Keeper._ "Oh no, sir, I think he's all right, sir. He mostly drop down like that if anybody misses!!"]

* * * * *

_Wiggins_ (_stolidly_). "Yes, sir, 'zactly so, sir. Wunnerfle place for echoes this 'ere, sir!"]

* * * * *

BALLAD OF THE CUNNING PARTRIDGE

The partridge is a cunning bird,
He likes not those who bring him down:
From age to age he has preferred
The shots that blaze into the brown,
Whose stocks come never shoulder high,
Who never pause to pick and choose,
But on whose biceps you descry
The black, the blue, the tell-tale bruise.

Or should a stubborn cartridge swell,
And jam, as it may chance, your gun,
The sly old partridge knows it well,
"Great Scott!" he seems to chirp "here's fun!"
He gathers all his feathered tribe,
They leave the stubble or the grass,
And with one wild and whirling gibe
Above your silent muzzles pass.

Your scheme you carefully contrive,
And, while each beater waves his flag,
Your fancy, as they duly drive,
Already sees a record bag.
But lo! they baulk your keen desire,
For, though with birds the sky grows black,
Not one of them will face the fire,
And every blessed bird goes back.

For partridges I'll try no more;
Why should I waste in grim despair?
Take me to far Albania's shore,
And let me bag the woodcock there.
Or on the Susquehanna's stream
I'll shoot with every chance of luck
The gourmet's glory and his dream,
The canvas-back, that juicy duck.

Yea, any other bird I'll shoot,
But not again with toil and pain
I'll tramp the stubble or the root.
Nor wait behind a fence in vain.
For of all birds you hit or miss
(I've tried it out by every test),
Again I say with emphasis
The partridge is the cunningest.

* * * * *

* * * * *

_Mr. Cylinder_ (_who always uses his host's cartridges_). "What powder are these loaded with, my boy?"

_Beater._ "Ar doan't rightly know; but ar think they calls it serdlitz pooder!"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

"What I like about the modern system of driving is the nice rest you can have between the beats."]

* * * * *

_Chickmouse_ (_who finds he can't get over his horror of firearms_)._ "Well--fact is--I'd rather you'd----Look 'ere, you 'old the gun, and I'll pull the thingummy!!"]

* * * * *

"Oh, I beg your pardon! I did not see you, sir!"

"See me! Confound it, sir, you can see _through_ me now!"]

* * * * *

_Poulterer._ "Twelve shillings a brace, ma'am. Shall I send them----"

_Lady Customer._ "No, you need not send them. My husband's out grouse-shooting, and he'll call for them as he comes home!"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

[_But he didn't "clear" him, and old Brown says he'll carry the marks to his grave!_

]

* * * * *

"Let's see your gun, sir. Ah!--well, I'd try what you could do _with some cartridges in it_, if I was you, sir!"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

(_A last shot of the season_)

_Old Pothunter._ "Always show mercy, my boy, always show mercy! Much better to shoot 'em sitting, and save poor things a nasty fall!"

[_Does._

]

* * * * *

_Brown._ "I wish I had the moral courage to go home!"]

* * * * *

_'Cute Rustic_ (_likewise anxious to make a bag_). "Oh, a rare lot, guv'nor--a rare lot--just flew over this 'ere 'edge, and settled in that 'ere field, close to Squire Blank's ricks."

[_Cockney sportsman tips boy a shilling, and goes hopefully after ... a flock of starlings!_

]

* * * * *

* * * * *

_Fair Sportswoman._ "Oh, Harry, I feel so excited, I scarcely know what I am doing!"]

* * * * *

_Ancient Sportsman_ (_whose sight is not what it used to be_). "Pick 'em up, James, pick 'em up! Why don't you pick 'em up?"

_Veteran Keeper._ "'Cause there bean't any down, my lord!"]

* * * * *

SPORT IN SPORT

(_Game played by Dumb-Crambo, Junior_)

* * *

* * *

* * *

* * *

* * *

* * * * *

_Uncle._ "Yes, my boy, a great deal. At one time, in Africa, I used to live by my gun."

_Boy_ (_thoughtfully_). "Did you? And is that why you're so thin?"]

* * * * *

_Keeper._ "Yes, sir."

_Fitz._ "Are you sure?"

_Keeper._ "Yes, sir."

_Fitz._ "Have you _counted_ them?"

_Keeper._ "No, sir; but I know they're a'right."

_Fitz._ "Then I've shot a roe deer!"]

* * * * *

_Monsieur Alphonse._ "Bah! I did fire ze odher barrel! I do fire bodt barrels togezzer! And in my own country I do shoot ze lark at twenty, twenty-five, and sometimes dirty yards--when he stand quite still! Your dogs zey make ze birds to flyaway"--(_insinuatingly_)--"and zey must be fatigued. Here is money. Take zem, and buy zem somezings to eat! Leave me to make my own dogs myself!!"]

* * * * *

_Keeper_ (_sotto voce_). "'Old your row, stupid! Of course he wasn't. We always puts a few down where the gov'nor's goin' to stand!"]

* * * * *

Lie down where you are!"]

* * * * *

HOW MOSSOO SHOT THE COCK-PHEASANT

(_The Gamekeeper's Story_)

He were a sort o' Frenchman, sir,
And called hisself a Duck:
I never could make head or tail
O' that there furrin muck!
He came to stay wi' Master there.
And brought his guns and that--
But bless you, sir! he could na' shoot,
No more than this here hat!

The Master and the Frenchman went
To shoot the spinney-kivver
What reaches from the stable-wall
Right down to that there river.
A rocketing cock flew up at wunst,
And Mossoo he fired, and missed--
How he did swear, and tear his hair,
And shake his little fist!

The way that Mossoo danced about,
It really were a sight!
He'd grin, and pull his beard, and shout
And screech with all his might.
He wore a thing across his nose
Just like a kind o' shear:
I think he said he were "my hop"--
Which means his sight were near.

Mossoo he yelled, "I see him zere,
Upon ze stable top!"
With that he banged off right and left--
I seed a summat drop;
I ran to pick up that there bird;
And 'neath the stable-clock
I found it sure enow--it were
Our new gilt weather-cock!

* * * * *

BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LTD., PRINTERS, LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.