Small Game Shooting 281 



are fresh and in wind, so we kill half of the birds 

 fired at, — a fair average in a rough country. In 

 three quarters of an hour the fun is over, the 



runners are retrieved, and A opines that a 



dozen quail may be flushed in the cliffs above us. 

 Climbing these is stiff work, and a brace escape 

 untouched as we stagger on to the summit. Here, 

 a detour is made in the hope of turning what birds 

 may be found into the brush we have just left. 

 Nor are we disappointed. The quail lie snug 

 amongst the warm boulders, and when flushed 

 fly back — dropping like bullets down a well. 



A misses four in succession, and his dog looks 



at him in solemn disgust. After fifteen years' prac- 

 tice we confess that the knack of killing quail drop- 

 ping with folded wings down a precipice has not 

 yet been vouchsafed us. Two angles — for the 

 birds curve outwards — must be nicely calculated, 

 and also the speed of the object, which varies 

 according to the strength and direction of the 

 wind. The reader, at ease in his arm-chair, will 

 kindly remember that a cliff has just been scaled, 

 that each man carries fifty cartridges, some dead 

 birds, and his luncheon, and that none of us is a 

 youth. Thoroughly blown, we sit for a moment 

 beneath the shelter of a scrub-oak, and Prince, with 

 lifted head and paw, advises us that a quail is con- 

 cealed in the thick foliage above. He must be 

 dislodged by a stone, then he will fly slantwise 

 from the top of the tree, close his wings, and drop. 



A offers to bet our guest two to one, in cigars, 



on the bird. It is agreed that the shooter must 

 himself shy the stone and then fire. Our guest 



