SOME MEMORIES 327 



landing on the ground with quite an earth- 

 shaking thud. A few stray pheasants, 

 wanderers from the coverts below, an 

 unlucky woodcock chance shot through 

 a thick branch, a sprinkling of snow-white 

 hares — ludicrous travesty of protective 

 colouring against the dark background — 

 a roe that swerves and falls to the next 

 gun, then the tap tap of approaching 

 beaters, and I am free to gather the spoil. 

 The high cock has split himself from 

 breast to tail in falling, but is happily only 

 a moderate specimen in any case; the 

 other bears no trace of his death, and is 

 a noble old veteran well-fitted to mount 

 as a trophy of the chase. 



No bad makeshift for a lost day with 

 the pheasants. 



Here it is perhaps as well to set a limit 

 on these random recollections, or they 

 might run on to interminable length, so 

 insidious is the path of reminiscence. 

 There was firm intention throughout the 

 writing of these pages to include nothing 



