A DAY WITH THE PAETRIDGE 193 



the morning stillness as a strong, full-grown 

 covey flies up almost from beneath my feet ; 

 two loud reports ring out, and the sport of 

 September is begun with a clean, well-distanced 

 right-and-left. For a moment I wait, calming 

 the excitement which both my dogs, though 

 trained to '' drop to shot,'' must keenly feel ; 

 then, cautioning Random to remain at " point,'' 

 I give Cora the signal to " seek dead." She 

 ranges slowly ahead, careful lest some straggler 

 from the covey still waits to be shot ; and 

 presently '' sets " on the dead birds, which I 

 retrieve and deposit in my ancient game-bag. 

 Then Random is whistled '' to heel," and soon 

 both he and Cora are sent off again across the 

 wind. 



Where now are the dozen birds that survived 

 the peril of the gun ? Doubtless they have 

 flown to the root-crop beyond the near 

 meadow. Later, on the down-hill beat, Cora and 

 Random will find them again. The stubble — 

 small as are most of our fields in the west — 

 yields nothing more towards the bag. I climb the 

 hedge, walk over a pasture where the dogs are 

 rested, because no cover exists for game, and 

 reach a second stubble. Cora trots away to the 

 left ; Random gallops to the right. Quickly 

 they turn and are almost crossing when the Irish 

 setter checks his headlong career, tries a back- 



