190 THE PARTRIDGE 



form the subject of the entries in our game- 

 books. The farmers over whose lands we shoot 

 adhere to old methods of husbandry, and suffi- 

 cient cover exists for birds to lie in imagined 

 security before our dogs. May the day be long 

 distant when setters and pointers shall never be 

 seen in the fields aroimd my home ! 



If only for memory's sake, I must needs go 

 forth into the autumn fields, and take the long 

 windward beats from hedge to hedge, while my 

 dogs, obedient and sure as they and their kin 

 have ever proved to be, range over root-crop 

 and stubble, eager to scent the hidden covey. 

 As I walk in my Arcadia, that since my childhood 

 has ever yielded new delights, I see, from the 

 hills, a little straggling village by a river, with 

 white pigeons circling about a dove-cote near 

 the bridge, and sunlight gleaming on the gardens ; 

 I hear the rumbling of laden wains along the 

 street, and even, if the wind be from the south, 

 the sound of voices as my neighbours wander 

 down the river path. In the fine air of the 

 autumn morning every sound is distinct, like the 

 chime of sweet-toned bells ; all objects before 

 my eyes seem brilhantly near. 



I am brought to a sudden halt ; Cora, my 

 Gordon setter, is at point in the middle of the 

 field, close to some ungarnered sheaves of 

 wheat. The '' old lady," as my children call 



