Chapter VIII: Part 8

Hunting, in this way, wasn't really so very bad. There did not appear to be so very much danger, the morning air was refreshing and pleasant, and the country looked bright. There always seemed to be a gate to each field, which, though troublesome to open at first, ultimately yielded to patience and perseverance and the handle of my whip. I might get home safely after all; and as for my desertion, where everyone was looking after himself, it was scarcely likely they could have observed my defection. No; this was not altogether bad fun. I could say with truth for the rest of my life that I "had hunted." It would add a zest to the perusal of sporting literature, and, above all, extend the range of my charity by making me sincerely appreciate men who really rode.

But alas! though clear of the trees practically, I was, metaphorically, very far from being out of the wood. When just endeavouring to make up my mind to come out again some day, I heard a noise, and, looking behind me, saw the whole fearful concourse rapidly approaching the hedge which led into the ploughed field next to me on the right. Helter-skelter, on they came! Hounds popping through, and scrambling over. Then a man in pink topping the fence, and on again over the plough; then one in black over with a rush; two, three, four more in different places. Another by himself who came up rapidly, and, parting company with his horse, shot over like a rocket!

All this I noted in a second. There was no time to watch, for The Sultan had seen the opportunity of making up for his lost day, and started off with the rush of an express train. We flew over the field; neared the fence. I was shot into the air like a shuttlecock from a battledore--a moment of dread--then, a fearful shock which landed me lopsidedly, somewhere on the animal's neck. He gives a spring which shakes me into the saddle again, and is tearing over the grass field beyond. I am conscious that I am in the same field as the Major, and some three or four other men. We fly on at frightful speed--there is a line of willows in front of us which we are rapidly nearing. It means water, I know. We get--or rather _it comes_ nearer--nearer--nearer--ah-h-h! An agony of semi-unconsciousness--a splash, a fearful splash--a struggle....

I am on his back, somewhere in the neighbourhood of the saddle: without stirrups, but grimly clutching a confused mass of reins as The Sultan gently canters up the ascent to where the hounds are howling and barking round a man in pink, who waves something brown in the air before throwing it to them. I have no sooner reached the group than the master arrives, followed by some four or five men, conspicuous among whom is the Major.

He hastens to me. To denounce me as an impostor? Have I done anything wrong, or injured the horse?

"I congratulate you, Smoothley,--I congratulate you! I promised you a run, and you've had one, and, by Jove! taken the shine out of some of us. My Lord"--to the master--"let me present my friend, Mr Smoothley, to you. Did you see him take the water? You and I made for the Narrows, but he didn't turn away, and went at it as if Sousemere were a puddle. Eighteen feet of water if it's an inch, and with such a take-off and such a landing, there's not a man in the hunt who'd attempt it! Well, Heathertopper! Laura, my dear,"--for she and the bulky Baronet at this moment arrived at the head of a straggling detachment of followers--"you missed a treat in not seeing Smoothley charge the brook:

'Down in the hollow there, sluggish and idle,
Runs the dark stream where the willow trees grow,
Harden your heart, and catch hold of your bridle--
Steady him--rouse him--and over we go!'

"Isn't that it? It was beautiful!"

It might have been in his opinion; in mine it was simply an act of unconscious insanity, which I had rather die than intentionally repeat.

"I didn't see you all the time, Mr Smoothley; where were you?" Laura asked.

"Where was he?" cried the Major. "Not following you, my dear. He took his own line, and, by Jove! it was a right one!"

It was not in these terms that I had expected to hear the Major addressing me, and it was rather bewildering. Still I trust that I was not puffed up with an unseemly vanity as Laura rode back by my side. She looked lovely with the flush of exercise on her cheek, and the sparkle of excitement in her eyes; and as we passed homewards through the quiet country lanes I forgot the painful creases that were afflicting me, and with as much eloquence as was compatible with the motion of my steed--I ventured!

The blushes deepen on her cheek. She consents on one condition: I must give up hunting.

"You are so rash and daring," she says, softly--_very_ softly, "that I should never be happy when you were out."

Can I refuse her anything--even _this_? Impossible!

I promise: vowing fervently to myself to keep my word; and on no account do anything to increase the reputation I made at Huntingcrop Hall.

A DOG HUNT ON THE BERWYNS

Thanks to the columns of the sporting papers, every Englishman, whatever his occupation, is sufficiently familiar with the details of fox-hunting, and all other kinds of hunting usually practised in merry England; but few, I fancy, have either seen or heard of a dog-hunt. It has fallen to my lot to participate in such a hunt; one, too, which was quite as exciting as a wolf-hunt must have been in the olden time, or as that most glorious of sports, otter-hunting, is now. Imagine to yourself a three days' chase after a fierce and savage dog, a confirmed sheep worrier, and that in the midst of the picturesque ruggedness and grandeur of the Welsh hills.

Some three or four miles east from Bala, the Berwyn Mountains raise their heathery summits in the midst of a solitude broken only by the plaintive bleat of a lost sheep or the shouts of men in search of it.

For miles the purple moorland rolls on without a moving creature to break the stillness. Deep ravines run down on either hand through green, ferny sheep-walks, dotted with innumerable sheep. These ravines in winter time, when the snow lies deep on the hills, are, when not frost-bound, roaring torrents. In the summer, huge blocks of stone are scattered about in strange confusion, and a tiny stream can scarcely find its way between them. Lower down still can be seen, here and there, a farm-house, in some sheltered glen, kept green all the year round by the trickling moisture. Further off still, in the valleys, are villages and hamlets tenanted by hardy Welsh sheep-farmers and dealers.

In the least-exposed corners of the sheep-walks are folds built of loose, unmortared stones, in which the sheep huddle to find shelter from the fury of the frequent storms which sweep over the mountains.

As the wealth of the hill farmers consists chiefly of sheep, if a dog once takes to worrying them, he is either kept in durance vile, or killed. The habit once acquired is never got rid of; and after a sheep-dog has once tasted blood, it becomes practically useless to the farmer. The quantity of sheep that can be killed by such a dog in a short time is almost incredible.

It may be imagined, therefore, with what feelings the Berwyn farmers heard of sheep after sheep being killed on their own and neighbouring farms, by a dog which nobody owned, and which ran loose on the mountains catering for itself. Descending from the lonelier parts of the hills, it would visit the sheep-walks and kill, as it appeared, for the pure love of killing; in most cases leaving the mangled bodies on the spot.

Month after month ran by, and it still eluded the vengeance of the indignant hillmen. The most exaggerated accounts were current respecting its size and ferocity. No two versions agreed as to its colour, though all gave it enormous size. As it afterwards turned out, it was a black and white foxhound bitch.

Everybody carried a gun, but on the few occasions that the dog came within shot, it appeared to be shot proof. The loss of numerous sheep was becoming serious; in some instances the farmers suffered heavily. It was the staple topic of conversation. From time to time, paragraphs, such as the following, appeared in the papers published in the neighbouring towns:--

"THE RAPACIOUS DOG.--The noted sheep destroyer on the Berwyn hills still continues to commit his depredations, in spite of all efforts to kill him.

"The last that was seen of him was on Sunday morning, by Mr Jones on the Syria sheep-walk, when the dog was in the act of killing a lamb. Mr Jones was armed with a gun at the time, and tried to get within gunshot range; but it seems that the animal can scent a man approaching him from a long distance, so he made off immediately. After it became known to the farmers and inhabitants of Llandrillo that he had been seen, a large party went up to the mountain at once, and were on the hills all day, but nothing more was heard of him till late in the evening, when he was again seen on Hendwr sheep-walk, and again entirely lost. On Monday a number of foxhounds were expected from Tanybwlch, and if a sight of him can be obtained, no doubt he will be hunted down and captured, and receive what he is fully entitled to--capital punishment."

On a bright May morning, five months after the first appearance of the sheep-destroyer, a pack, consisting of a dozen couple of fox-dogs, with their huntsman, started up the lane from Llandderfel to the hills, followed by a motley crowd of farmers and labourers, armed with guns and sticks, and numbering many horsemen.

Up the lane till the hedges gave place to loose stone walls, higher still till the stone walls disappeared, and the lane became a track, and then a lad came leaping down the hill, almost breathless, with the news that the dog had been seen on a hill some six miles away.

Up the mountain, down the other side, up hill after hill, following the sheep-tracks, the cavalcade proceeded, until we reached the spot where our quarry had been last seen. A line of beaters was formed across the bottom of a glen, and proceeded up the hill. Up above was Dolydd Ceriog, the source of the Ceriog, which came through a rent in the moorland above.

A wilder scene could not be imagined. On either side the hills rose up, until their peaks were sharply defined against the blue. The steep sides were covered with gorse and fern, with fantastic forms of rock peering through. At the bottom the infant Ceriog eddied and rushed over and among rocks of every shape and size, forming the most picturesque waterfalls. In front up the ravine the numerous cascades leaped and glittered, growing smaller and smaller, until the purple belt of moorland was reached.

The hounds quartered to and fro, and the men shouted in Welsh and English. The hardy Welsh horses picked their way unerringly over the _débris_.

"Yonder he is," was the cry, as up sprang the chase a hundred yards ahead. From stone to stone, from crag to crag, through the water, through the furze and fern fled the dog, and the foxhounds catching sight and scent, followed fast. At first they gained, but when the pursued dog found it was terrible earnest for her, she laid herself well to her work--mute.

Startled by the unusual noise, the paired grouse flew whirring away. The sheep were scattered in confusion, and a raven flew slowly away from a carcase. Upward still we went, the footmen having the best of it on the uneven ground--

"Upward still to wilder, lonelier regions,
Where the patient river fills its urn
From the oozy moorlands, 'mid the boulders;
Cushioned deep in moss, and fringed with fern."

Now the hounds are over the crest, and soon we followed them. We now had the bogs to contend with, worse enemies than the rocks.

"Diawl! John Jones, I am fast," we heard and saw an unfortunate pony up to its belly in the bog. Another stumbles in a crevice and sends its rider headlong. We footmen have still the best of it, although it is no easy matter to run through the heather.

We had now reached the other side of the mountain, and were fast descending into the valley of the Dee. There seemed a probability of our catching the quarry here; but no, she left the heather--much to my relief, it must be confessed--and made for the valley, past a farm; now well in advance of her pursuers; over the meadows; then, for a short distance, along the Bala and Corwen line. Then past Cynwyd village, where the crowd of people, and the various missiles sent after her, failed to stop her. Then through the churchyard, and along the road for some distance.

Here a man breaking stones hurled his hammer at the bitch, but missed her.

Turning again, she made for the hills, running with unabated speed, although she had been hunted for nearly ten miles. The original pursuers had melted away, but we were reinforced by numbers of others.

Here I obtained a pony and set off again.

By this time the hounds were in full cry up the hillside. Mile after mile, over the hills we followed, now only by scent, as the dog had made good use of her time, while the hounds were hampered by people crossing the scent at the village.

"The shades of night were falling fast," when we came to a brook flowing from the moorland. Here the scent was lost, and the wild dog was nowhere to be seen. We held a council of war as to what was to be done. I was the only horseman present at first, but by-and-by the huntsman and others came up, bog-besmeared, and in a vicious frame of mind. We looked a queer group, as we sat in the light of some dead fern that somebody had kindled. Some were sitting on stones; others kneeling down, drinking from the brook; some whipping the tired dogs in, and others gesticulating wildly.

One thing was evident--nothing more could be done that evening; and the hounds were taken to their temporary home, to rest all the morrow, and resume the hunt on the day after.

On the morrow, from earliest dawn, messengers were coursing the glens in all directions, with invitations to people far and near to come and assist in the hunt. For myself, I was glad to rest my tired limbs. Although pretty well used to mountain work, I was quite done up; still, I resolved to see the end of the fun, and hired another pony.

The day after, the men kept pouring in to the place of rendezvous, till I was sure the majestic hills had never before witnessed such an assemblage. From far and near they came. Many, like myself, were mounted upon Welsh ponies. We commenced beating; and the Berwyns rang with the unearthly yells of the crowd. We reached Cader Fronwen, one of the highest of the Berwyns, without meeting with a trace.

Here I was put _hors de combat_ by my pony sticking fast in a bog; and as every one was too busy to help me, there I had to stay, and the hunt swept on. Soon the noise of the beaters died away, and I was left alone, sitting on a stone which peered out of the bog, holding the bridle of my unfortunate steed, and every now and then cutting heather and pushing it under its belly, to prevent the poor creature sinking any deeper into the mire. Here's a pretty fix, I thought.

Soon the mist which enveloped the summit of Cader Fronwen came sweeping down the gorge in a torrent of rain; and, even if my pony had been free, it would have been madness to stray from where I was, as I could not see two yards before me, and I did not know the paths.

By-and-by I heard them coming back, and then saw them looming gigantic in the mist. After having extricated my pony, as I was chilled and wet through, I made the best of my way to Llangynog, while the rest of the party--or multitude, rather--made for the Llanrhaiadr hills, but as I afterwards learnt, without success. Tired with a hard and long day's work, the men separated, and made off for their respective homes. No traces of the dog had been found, although every likely hill had been well scoured.

Some of the people averred that the devil must be in the dog. The major part of the farmers believed that the savage animal had been frightened away, and most probably would not be met with again for some time. Acting under this conviction, the hounds were sent back by train the next morning.

The morrow was beautifully fine; and, little expecting that I should see the death of the sheep-worrier, I had gone for a ramble over the hills, armed with my geological hammer. I was sitting on a slab in an isolated quarry, watching the varying tints of the hillside, as shadow and sunshine coursed each other over the tender spring green of the grass, the darker green of the new fern, and the warm yellow-brown of last year's fronds, and admiring the contrast of the grey rocks angrily jutting out amidst the loveliness, and the whole crowned with the purple heather, rising above a narrow belt of mist, when a man, gun in hand, came clinking down the sloping rubbish, digging his heels in at each step, and excitedly told us--the two or three quarrymen and myself--that he had seen the dog lying on a rock about a mile away.

A boy was despatched to summon the neighbouring farmers. In a very short space of time about fifty were on the spot, armed with guns of every conceivable make and age. Stealthily creeping up the hill, we were sent in different directions, so as to surround the sheep-walk where she lay.

In half an hour's time a gradually lessening circle was formed, all proceeding as silently as possible, and taking advantage of every tuft of fern or stunted thorn, so as to get as near as possible before arousing the sleeping dog.

There was a distance of about eighty yards between each man, when the brute rose up, and stretched herself, showing her white and glistening fangs.

Uttering a low growl as she became aware of her position, she set off in a long swinging gallop towards the heather. Just in that direction there appeared to be a man missing from the cordon, and a wide gap was left through which it seemed probable she would escape, and a storm of shouts arose. Just, however, as escape seemed certain, a sheet of flame poured out from behind a clump of thorn bushes and fern, and a loud report went reverberating over the glens. The dog's neck turned red, and she rolled over and over, uttering yelp after yelp in her agony. There was a miscellaneous charge from all sides. Crash came the butt-end of the gun which had shot her on her body, with such force that the stock was splintered. Bang! bang! everybody tried to get a hit at her, even after she was dead.

When life was quite extinct we all gathered together, and a whoop of triumph awoke the echoes, startling the lapwings on the moorland.

As we marched down to the village we fired a volley in token of our success, and cheer after cheer told of the gladness with which it was welcomed by the villagers. The man who fired the lucky shot was carried through the streets of the village on the shoulders of two stout quarrymen, and the whole population gave themselves a holiday and made merry. A large subscription was started, and contributed to handsomely, in order to pay for the hounds and other expenses.

Upon examination the bitch was found to be branded on the left side with the letter "P;" so if any of my readers have lost such a dog, they will know what has become of it.

I do not suppose that a more exciting chase was ever witnessed since the old wolf-hunting days.

It may seem strange to many, as it did to me, that foxhounds should chase one of their own breed, but the fact remains that they did so.

ON SOME ODD WAYS OF FISHING

BY THE AUTHOR OF "MOUNTAIN, MEADOW, AND MERE"

The maxim that one half the world does not know how the other half lives may, with slight variation, be applied to the world of sportsmen. The "sportsman" is not of any particular class. The highest in the land and the lowest may rub against each other in the broad field of sport. This is peculiarly true as regards the gentle art. Wandering by the side of an unpreserved stream you may see my lord casting a fly over this shallow; and, twenty yards further down, Tinker Ben seated by the side of a chub hole watching his float circling round in the eddy, and as the noble passes the boor an honest angler's greeting may be interchanged, and a light for the latter's pipe asked for and given. It may be taken as a general rule that between anglers who pursue their sport by fair means there is a levelling freemasonry of the craft which is as pleasant as it is right.

Between the fair fisherman and the poacher, there is, however, a broad line of demarcation--a line which bars the interchange of even the commonest civilities on the mutual ground of pursuing the same object. The fair fisherman hates the man who captures the finny tribe by unfair or illegal means as strongly as a foxhunter hates a foxkiller, or a strict sabbatarian hates a sinner who enjoys a Sunday afternoon's walk and the glimpses of nature it may afford him. There is also a line drawn between the man who fishes for amusement alone and he who fishes for profit. The division in the latter instance may not be so broad as it is in the former, but, nevertheless, it is wide enough to distinctly separate the two classes. Now I think the fair and amateur angler is in a great many instances unaware of the shifts and dodges adopted by the poacher and the pothunter to fill their pockets, and of the consequent hindrance to his own sport. Therefore by way of warning, of information, and possible amusement, I have noted down a few of the more singular instances which have come under my own observation.

Let anyone take a boat and row down the sluggish Yare from the dirty old city of Norwich as the shades of evening are darkening the river, and he will see several uncouth, rough-looking boats being slowly impelled down stream by rougher looking men. He will notice that they have short, stout rods and poles in the boats, and if he watches them, he will presently see them take up their stations by the margin. Driving poles in the mud at the stems and sterns of their boats, the men make them fast; and, taking their seats, proceed to "bob" for eels. A quantity of earthworms are strung on worsted, and, after being weighted, are suspended by a stout line from a short thick rod. The solitary fisherman holds one of these rods in each hand on each side of the boat, just feeling the bottom with the bait, and now and then pulling it up and shaking the eels, whose teeth get entangled in the worsted, into the boat. There he sits silent and uncommunicative, the greater part of the night and in all weathers, for the sake, perhaps, of, on the average, a shilling's worth of eels each night. Altogether his berth must be a lonely one. His companions take their positions too far off to hold conversation with him, and the splash of a water-rat or the flaps of the canvas of a belated wherry and the cheery good-night of its steersman are the only sounds to beguile the tedium of his midnight watching.

Another mode of capturing eels is by "eel picking" in the lower waters of the Yare near Cantley. The man, armed with his eel spear, takes his stand in the bows of his craft, and, stealing along by the edge of the reeds, plunges his spear at random in the mud. He uses his spear also as the means of propelling his tiny boat. I have seen four or five boats following each other along the side of the river in a queer-looking procession.

Those centres of interest to the angler--the Norfolk broads--are, alas! the strongholds of poaching. Norfolk anglers plead their great expanse of water as an excuse for "liggering" or trimmering to an enormous extent. Taking Norfolk anglers as a class, if they _can_ "ligger" they will. The amount of destruction is something wonderful. The only time I ever yielded to the temptation of going with a friend "liggering," I am thankful to say, we caught nothing, and I am not in a hurry to repeat the experiment. Yarrell gives an account of four days' sport (?) at Heigham Sounds and Horsea, where in 1834, in the month of _March_, his informants caught in that space of time 256 pike weighing altogether 1135 lbs. What wonder that it is now difficult to get really good sport at these places with rod and line!

My favourite fish, the tench, has a bad habit of basking on the surface of some of these broads on hot summer's days in weedy bays, where he deems himself perfectly secure. But the amphibious Broadsman paddles quietly up to him, and actually scoops him out with his hand. You may touch his body with your hand and he shall not move, but if you touch his tail he darts away.

I have seen a somewhat similar thing in shallow pools in Shropshire. When the big carp come to the side to spawn, their bodies are half out of the water, and they may be approached and shovelled out with a spade. In the reeds adjoining a carp pool I once found a murderous instrument which was used by a gang of sawyers at work in the adjacent wood, for destroying the basking carp. It consisted of a large flat piece of wood, in which were set long nails like the teeth of a garden rake. This was attached to a long pole, and woe betide the unfortunate carp on whose back it descended.

Groping for trout in the shallow streams is a well-known amusement of country boys; but the dastardly and cruel practice of _liming_ a brook is not now so often resorted to as it used to be. I have seen it done in a mountain brook, when, on account of my extreme youth, I have been powerless to prevent it, and the schoolboy notion of honour prevented my "peaching." A shovelful of quicklime is taken up the brook to some shallow ford, and then thrown into the water and triturated so that the stream carries it in a milk-white stream downwards. In a short time the poachers follow it, and pick up the trout, which are floating dead on the surface, or swimming in circles on the top of the water, with scorched and blinded eyeballs. The lime penetrates into every crevice of the stream bed, and if it does not kill every trout within its range, it cruelly tortures all. I well remember the sickening sense of shame that crept over me as, an unwilling participator in the outrage, I crept over the mossy ground, when the noise made by every water-ouzel that took wing and every sheep that leaped down the hill side seemed to herald the approach of a keeper, with awful penalties of the law in his train.

Diverting the course of a brook, and emptying the pools of their water, and afterwards of their fish, is a long operation, and therefore not so frequently resorted to; but that poaching instrument called the twopole net I have known to clear many a nice little pool in a stream of its spotted denizens.

Do my readers know what a cleeching net is? It is in effect a magnified landing-net at the end of a long pole, and its use is to grab fish from under clumps of weed and overhanging banks. I once had one made for the purpose of catching bait, and a ludicrous incident occurred to a friend of mine who used it. He plunged it in too far from the side where the water was deeper than he imagined, and the consequence was that he fell forward, his feet still on the bank, but his hands resting on the top of the pole within a foot of the water, into which he gradually subsided, in spite of our efforts to pull him back by the slack of his trousers. I have seen the cleeching net used in a very effective manner by bargees on canals. As their vessel is towed along, they put the net into the water alongside the bows, and walk back to the stern as the boat moves, so as to keep the net in the same position. The rush of the water, displaced by the passage of the barge, drives a good many fish into the net, and I have even known fair-sized pike to be captured in this way.

Once I was cruising down the Severn, and had moored the canoe under some bushes in a very secluded part of the river to take my midday rest. Presently I saw two men in coracles coming down the river. They stopped just opposite me, and commenced to net the river with a small meshed net. They paid the net out in a semi-circle, and then, beating the water with their paddles, they closed and completed the circle; and with their coracles side by side hauled their net in. It was a caution to see the fish they caught. Great chub of five, and one of nine pounds' weight, roach, pike, and dace. In half an hour they had caught a great number. They looked rather frightened when I shot out from my hiding-place and examined their sport and the net.

I have not space to chat about setting night lines, in which art the Norfolk yachtsmen are no mean proficients; of smelting in the Yare; of netting the weedy pools in Cheshire with a flue net; of setting hoop nets for tench baited with a bunch of flowers or a brass candlestick, which attract the too curious fish; of eel bays and weirs, and the large eel nets set in the Bure from below Acle to Yarmouth; of leistering salmon and snaring pike; of casting nets used for unlawful purposes; of snatch-hooks and salmon roe, and other like deadly means of compassing the destruction of the finny tribe; but I fancy I have said enough to call to the angler's remembrance that his rod and line have formidable rivals, and that it behoves him to do all in his power to suppress and punish illegal and unfair sport.

SHOOTING

The 1st of September is a day more looked forward to by the general sporting public than any other. August 12th and October 1st may be eagerly anticipated by the wealthy sportsman, but September 1st is the day most generally looked forward to. Nor is the reason difficult to discover. Partridge-shooting is comparatively the cheapest of sports. So long as vermin is kept down by trapping, and the fields properly bushed in the season, to prevent the birds being netted, a fair number are sure to be found. There are few better or more exciting sports than partridge-driving. People who have never tried and those who have tried and failed, affect to despise it; but, in spite of all, it is an excellent sport, if only for the reason that all can join in it. The old and young, the weak and strong, and even ladies, honour the stands with their presence; though this cannot be said to add to the accuracy of the shooting, for partridge-driving arrangements are usually made so as to arrive at the first set of stands somewhere about eleven. Here the head-keeper is met, who, after giving directions about watching particular lines, and begging that gentlemen will not put up their heads too soon, but keep down and "give the birds a chance," as he calls it, on the _lucus a non lucendo_ principle, I suppose, mounts his old horse and trots off after the drivers, receiving, first of all, you may be sure, some chaff from the youngsters about his horse and his seat, to which he good-humouredly rejoins that "he hopes they will shoot better than he can ride."

The party now disperse to their several stands, each one accompanied by his loader, and, as you stroll down with your old loader, he greatly amuses you by his observations on the party and shrewd forecast of their respective powers. In a short time the distant sound of a horn is heard, which makes your old man break off his stories and reflections altogether, as he knows it is the signal for the line of drivers to start; you yourself peer eagerly through the screen, though really knowing that there is no chance of a shot for a long time yet. Presently a series of unearthly yells are heard, as some obstinate covey rises and breaks back over the drivers' heads. And here let me remark that the arrangement of a successful drive requires a great deal of forethought and knowledge; the wind and sun must be studied, and also the habits of the birds. Partridges are thorough Tories, and like to take the same line that their fathers before them did, so it is useless to try to drive them far out of it.

Presently, as you are looking through the screen, a dark object comes into view that appears rather like a bumble bee; in another second you perceive it is an old cock French partridge, when, just as you are in the act of firing, down drops the bird, and commences running like a racehorse. Naturally you bring your gun down, but the old loader whispers, "Shoot un, sir, shoot un; he be the blarmed old cock, and mayhap, if you kills un, t'others will be obliged to fly;" so you pot him, and the cloud of feathers that comes out is wonderful. A novice would think that it was blown to bits; but the fact is, nothing of the kind has happened, the cloud being caused by the great thickness of plumage. It is very curious to shoot one in snow: the stream of feathers lying on it looks as if a small pillow had been ripped open.

Soon a distant cry of "Mark over!" showing that a covey has risen and is coming right for the stands, puts every one on the _qui vive_. Here they come straight for the man on the right, and you feel almost inclined to envy his chance, when suddenly the covey mount straight up like so many sky-rockets; your friend, fresh to the sport, has put up his head just a minute or so too soon, and the birds saw him. Firing a hasty right and left as they pass over, he is greatly surprised at a bird falling nearly on the top of him, the fact being that the two he shot at were clean missed, but one of the hindmost of the covey flew into the shot. And now the scene begins to be very interesting; the birds are beginning to run out of the roots on to the large stubble in front, not by ones and twos, but by twenties at a time, the French birds of course being first. It is most curious to notice their dodges--how they run about looking for places to hide in, and when they discover the least shelter drop down into it at once; but you cannot spare much attention to them, as the coveys begin to rise thick and fast, and cries of "Mark over!" are incessant. The work now begins to be very exciting, and the fusillade kept up reminds one of the commencement of a general action, so sustained is it. Some of the younger hands, thoroughly overcome by the excitement of their first drive, are firing wildly, as if they thought they should not have a second chance. By way of contrast, look at the man stationed three or four stands from you, and see the machine-like regularity with which he knocks the birds over; no flurry of any sort, the gun brought up easily, the two sharp reports, and a brace of birds tumbling; the empty piece handed to the loader, and the other gun taken and discharged in the same cool way with the like unfailing result. Both master and man are perfect specimens of their kind, the former as a shot and the latter as a loader. And now, as the drivers get further through the roots, the hares begin to bolt out, running wildly in every direction, utterly bewildered at the shouts and yells that greet them. Not many are shot at except by those who have utterly muffed the birds, and are anxious to show that they can hit something. Next, as the drivers come out on to the stubble, the French birds begin to get up by ones and twos. Many of these get off, for they rise from such queer places, often close to the stands.

The first drive being over, the head-keeper comes up to see the game collected, pausing by the stands of those who have been unlucky, and gravely telling their loaders that they "need not trouble to pick up their master's birds," as he always sees to that; whereupon very frequently the occupier tries to explain how the birds twisted or the sun was in his eyes, or makes one of the thousand excuses that men give for missing. The game being now collected, the party stroll off to the next set of stands, and the same thing goes on again, with the exception that some of the excited sportsmen cool down a little, and, in consequence, improve in their shooting. Driving is the least fatiguing of any sport to the shooters, the drivers having to go such long rounds to their different starting-points that there is not the least need to hurry from stand to stand, but you can pick your way and go by the easiest route. The actual shooting, however, is difficult; it requires skill and coolness to get the exact knack of the thing. I well remember, after one drive, a man, who really was a remarkably good shot over dogs or walking up birds, coming to me with an expression of the greatest disgust on his face, and saying, "I have actually missed eight shots running!" However, he soon got into the way of it; but at first you do not discover the pace the birds go at, and are rather bothered by their coming right at you.

After a morning's driving very good sport can be got in the afternoon by going out with a couple of steady spaniels after the French partridges. You will find these birds have hidden themselves in the most wonderful places, under clods and small lumps of hedge-cuttings, in tufts of grass, holes by gate-posts; in fact, there is no telling where they may have got to. A rabbit-hole is a very favourite place; so if one of your dogs seems inclined to stop and scratch at one, do not tell your keeper to "call the tiresome beast off," as he is always after rabbits, for it is ten to one that a Frenchman has taken refuge there. You will often find that the birds have got down almost to the end of the hole. However, they give capital sport, as they rise out of such unexpected places that you must always be ready for a shot. Besides the sport, it is an excellent way of keeping these "pests" down; for they really are "pests," driving about the English birds in the breeding season, and bothering your dogs awfully in the beginning of the shooting season by their habits of running; indeed, until driving commences, you hardly ever kill a Frenchman; but this is not much of a loss, as when they are shot they are not worth eating. One thing, you can send them away as presents to people who do not know their merits, and are very much pleased with them on account of their size and the beauty of their plumage, doubtless putting down their hardness and want of flavour to their cook!

But partridge-shooting _par excellence_ is over dogs. It is a treat indeed to see a brace of well-broken pointers or setters at work: the speed with which they quarter their ground, and yet their perfect steadiness; to see the dog that finds the game stop dead in his gallop, limbs all rigid, as if he was turned into stone, ears pricked and eyes almost starting out of his head with excitement; then his companion backing steadily, the attitude the same, but no eagerness shown; the rapid shots, and the dogs both down in an instant,--all this is delightful to witness, but is very seldom seen now-a-days. After the first week dogs are very little use, the birds will not lie to them; high farming, with its machine-cut stubbles, clean ploughs, and widely-drilled root-crops, has almost abolished shooting over dogs. The birds will not wait on the bare stubbles, and if you get them into roots, the rattle of the leaves when the dogs are at work is a signal for their flight. The only chance is where seeds have been sown in barley; then the reaping-machine cannot be set very low or it clogs, and in this there is fair lying; but as for the fine stubbles knee-high that our fathers enjoyed, and the broadcast turnips--why, they have gone, and pointers and setters have, alas, nearly disappeared with them.

When the birds have become so wild that they will not lie to the dogs at all, the best and most sportsmanlike way is to walk them up; but to do this with any success requires a man to be in excellent training. Walking over fallows deeply ploughed by steam-power is no joke, and the birds invariably select these. Your plan is to have about four guns and five keepers or beaters, and take the fields in line, of course driving in the direction of any pieces of cole-seed, mustard, or roots that you may have on your ground; for when once the birds get into these, particularly into cole-seed, they will remain the rest of the day. It is surprising how many are bagged when walking: sometimes the coveys seem bothered by the line of men, and will rise within an easy shot; but they often seem to know by some sort of intuition the bad shot of the party, and will allow him to get fairly into the middle of them, when they rise with a rush, and fly off none the worse for his too hurried shots.

In this sport there is not half the firing to be heard which there is in "driving;" but the deadly single shot or the steady double is heard pretty regularly, and the bag at the end of the day is usually heavier. You commonly find that a very fair bag is made before entering the cole-seed or roots where the coveys have principally gone; but when this cover is entered, unless very unlucky, you may fairly reckon on the bag being doubled, for the birds cannot run much, and are forced to rise fairly, so that even a moderate shot ought to be pretty sure of his birds. One great advantage of this kind of shooting is that so few birds get away wounded; as a rule they are either dropped at once or get off scot-free, whereas in "driving" an immense number go away wounded; and if there are any crows in the district, it is most curious to see them on the day after a "drive" hunting the fields regularly and systematically after the cripples.

There is still another method of partridge-shooting, but this mode is only adopted by wealthy cits, and brand-new peers. The keepers, with a strong force of beaters, are sent out to drive the birds into cover, and, when there, men are left as stops to keep the birds from straying out; then about twelve the party drive up in wagonettes, well wrapped up, and with plenty of foot-warmers, &c., to the nearest piece of cover, get out, take their guns, and walk right through it, blazing at everything that shows itself; when they have done one field, they get into their carriages and drive to the next, where the same amusement is carried on; then comes hot lunch at the nearest keeper's house, which lasts for an hour or more, and the afternoon sport is a repetition of the morning's. There is no stopping to pick up the game,--keepers are left behind for that, and are told to take their guns, so as to stop any cripples, the "writing between the lines" being in this case that they are to kill all they can, so as to make the bag sound better at the end of the day.

As partridge-shooting is one of the cheapest amusements, pheasant-shooting, on the other hand, is one of the dearest. What with feeding the young birds and doctoring them, and the constant watching they require when they are turned into the cover; and lastly, the large staff of beaters, the calculation of ten shillings per head for every one killed is not far beyond the mark. Pheasant-shooting can really only be managed by one method, and that is by having a body of well-trained beaters; so cunning are these birds that there is no chance of giving your friends the desired sport, if you do not have them. It is true a very pleasant day may often be had on the outskirts of your grounds by going round with some well-broken spaniels; but for real pheasant-shooting beaters are indispensable. A well-arranged and successful beat requires almost as much generalship as an Ashanti campaign. The covers must be watched from the earliest season, but the watchers must show themselves as little as possible; if the pheasants come out, they should put them back by rattling a stick or shaking some branches, for by showing themselves the chances are that the pheasants would fly off at once, but the rattle of a stick merely makes them run back into cover. Then the corners where they are to rise must be netted most carefully, perfect silence being kept, and as little noise of any kind made as possible. When the beat has actually commenced not a point must be left unguarded, the smallest ditch or grip with grass in it must have a "stop" at it, and any hare or rabbit runs that there may be must be stopped also. The boys who act as "stops" have to be well drilled in their parts, just to keep a subdued kind of rattle with their two short sticks, and by no means to strike the bushes in cover--merely to use their sticks as a kind of castanet. In fact, pheasants are at once the keeper's greatest pride and greatest plague, from the time when he has to guard the wild birds' nests against egg-stealers, and to watch those brought up under hens--ever on the look-out for gapes or croup when they are quite young, and then when older, and turned into the covers, on the watch for poachers or vermin, until the grand shooting-day; and even until that is over his anxiety is unceasing. It is very difficult to prevent them straying, particularly in a district where there are many oaks, as they will, however well fed, roam after acorns. And then to insure there being a proper quantity of pheasants in the required places is no easy work. With all the pains possible, it is extraordinary how they will stray away. Two instances of this straying propensity came under my individual notice.

I was staying with a large party at a friend's house for pheasant-shooting, and as the covers had not been beaten before, my friend was sanguine of some first-rate sport, knowing the large number of pheasants that had been reared, and the trouble that had been taken with them. We went out, and everything seemed to promise an excellent day's shooting; the pheasants were all reported safe the night before, and "stops" had been sent out early to prevent them straying, nets put down, and all complete. Well, the first cover that was beaten yielded only about thirty or forty pheasants, instead of three or four times that number, and the second and third the same. The host looked much annoyed, and his keeper almost heart-broken; and this kind of sport continued until the afternoon, when my friend called up the keeper, and in desperation ordered him to beat a small covert standing by itself about three-quarters of a mile off. The man said he did not think it was any use, as no pheasants were ever there; however, as his master wished it, it should be done, and he sent off some men to put down the nets very carefully. When we came up the under-keeper said there certainly were some pheasants there, though he had never known them to be in that place before; so we began, and very soon found that they had nearly all migrated from their usual quarters to this place, above four hundred being killed in this small cover. How they got there no one could guess; there were not any connecting hedgerows or ploughed fields, and they had roosted in their usual places.

The second case occurred to myself. I wished to beat a small cover of my own of about four acres, as we knew there were some pheasants there, and being an outlying one it was not altogether safe; so I gave orders that the place should be netted, and "stops," &c., sent out, and then went and beat it, but to my great surprise found scarcely anything. The keeper was utterly puzzled too; we tried all the likely spots round with no result, and I came to the conclusion that some poachers must have beaten the wood very early that day. However, as we were going off, the quick eye of my keeper detected a pheasant running in an old grassy lane near, and we resolved to try this; and well it was we did; every bush and tuft of grass seemed to hold a pheasant, and we made a capital bag, killing all but one, to my keeper's great satisfaction. Several more were got than the number he had mentally put down for the cover to yield; however, in this case we at length detected the way they had got out. The end of the wood had been netted, and a "stop" put on one side where there was an old ditch; but on the other a little grip with long grass in it, leading from the cover across a field to the old lane, had been left unguarded, as the net was thought to have been fastened down so closely that nothing could get out; but the pheasants found the weak place, and undoubtedly strayed by it.