UNUSUAL SHOTS. 131 
houses, and just coming up to the flock of village Ducks that one always met 
at that particular corner. 
““Mind where you’re going, or you'll brain one of these Ducks,” said 
the shooter in the bows as we got amongst them. 
“You mind your own business and shoot that brown one if he rises,” 
was my answer, as I glanced over my shoulder and half saw a rather trim- 
looking bird amongst the flock. The words were hardly out of my mouth, 
when up it got not five yards off the boat. Streeten’s gun missed fire, and 
Young had his back turned, but the Wigeon was considerate and settled hard 
by in the marsh. Out sprang two eager schoolboys and went after it; and 
their combined efforts worried it into a premature grave in the estuary. On 
the same day my brother aimed at a Skua, and killed the Tern it was 
chasing—one of the flattest shots I have ever seen made. 
During a September migration, a small Warbler attracted my attention 
on the mud at the side of a tidal drain. Not recognizing it, I fired and 
apparently killed it, as it did not fly away; but on reaching the spot I found 
only one or two breast-feathers, round which the mud was churned up. 
I thought at first I had buried it, but that was not so, and to this day I am 
utterly mystified as to what really happened to that bird. 
I was once with a friend who fired from above at a bird in a large 
drain. The bird decamped unharmed, and he then murmured rather feelingly 
that there were no shot-marks in the mud. I, of course, suggested that he had 
missed the drain as well as the bird, but, if so, it was a record shot of its 
kind, and we charitably assumed afterwards that he had somehow got hold 
of a blank cartridge, though in that case it was singular that he should have 
happened to use it when he had mud for a background. 
Do birds ever die or become disabled from pure fright when they are 
fired at? More than once I have seen birds supposed to be shot which 
showed no signs of a wound, either then or when being stuffed. Our first 
Bluethroat was a case in point. My brother, R. B., fired at it on some 
shingle. The bird then ran towards him, and being too near to shoot again, 
and fancying it was injured, he made at it and captured it with his hand. 
I could never find the slightest trace of an injury when I came to set it up. 
Walking-stick guns are provocative of more gusty language than any 
other sporting implement I have ever encountered, golf clubs not excluded, 
but I made a most memorable shot with one all the same. It was near 
Cambridge that I was walking along a hedge with a friend, out of which 
repeatedly popped a Hedge-Sparrow. He suggested after a time that I 
should have a shot at it on the wing; my weapon was the smallest-sized 
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