XXXIV MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR 
keeper ‘‘an old hare got up in front of ’un, and he 
wouldn’t shoot, and then another got up, and he 
wouldn’t shoot that neither, so at last I shouted 
‘Shoot ’un, Your Holiness, shoot,’ and shoot ’un he 
did!” 4 
On another occasion, he was shooting at a place 
where the host was not a good shot, and it was Mr. 
Foster-Melliar’s fortune to be the gun next to his 
host at one particular stand. Mr. Foster-Melliar, of 
course, was careful not to shoot at any birds that 
might have been looked on as belonging to his host’s 
stand, with the result that not much damage was 
being done. In the midst of it all the head keeper 
crawled round to Mr. Foster-Melliar and whispered 
in his ear, ‘‘ Don’t you mind nothing about nobody’s 
birds, sir’’—which, as Mr. Foster-Melliar said after- 
wards, was a remark that contained about as many 
negatives as a sentence of eight words could be 
expected to carry comfortably. 
Mr. Foster-Melliar did not hunt, and his attitude 
towards foxes was—mildly disapproving, shall we 
say? But in case any rosegrowers are also fox- 
hunters, here is a story that he used to tell some- 
times. In the west country, where all the farmers 
are or used to be great sportsmen, there was a certain 
gamekeeper who did not attempt to conceal his 
aversion to foxes. A farmer was riding to the meet 
on a very wet and stormy morning, and met the 
keeper. ‘‘ Morning,” said the farmer. ‘‘ Morning,” 
said the keeper cheerfully, adding, ‘foxes ‘ll most 
likely be underground this sort of weather.”’ 
‘‘ Mebbe,’’ answered the farmer, ‘‘ but—who put ’em 
theere ?”’ 
To enter into his toils and triumphs as a rose- 
