THE MORNING START 211 



of Carlo has struck him motionless, precisely as he was 

 scrambling over that moss-grown stone in an attitude 

 that nothing but his native grace can redeem from 

 awkwardness. You pick your way towards Carlo, 

 rising the knoll cautiously, your gun pitched well 

 forward. But there is no especial need for over-care ; 

 the sheep flushed the last lot, it is true, but this balmy 

 morning the birds will sit like brooding-hens. At last 

 the tenseness of the situation becomes too much for the 

 nerves of the old cock, who knows something of dogs 

 and breech-loaders from vivid recollections of luckier 

 seasons. Till now his eye has been half-fascinated by 

 Carlo's, but at last -the spell is broken, and he is up and 

 away, leaving his wife to look after the chickens, with 

 the confirmed selfishness of a family man demoralised 

 by bachelor habits. His cheery crow of triumph is 

 premature. You give him law enough, and then drop 

 him with a heavy thud on the heather, in all the 

 delicate consideration for his plumage that the circum- 

 stances admit of. Nor does his widow survive a score 

 of seconds to lament her lord, and before the last pair 

 of interesting orphans have collected their faculties 

 sufficiently to leave the scene of the bloody drama, you 

 have charged with a fresh pair of cartridges and taken 

 a couple of pot-shots. Superb the old birds are, with 

 the ruddy pencillings of their delicate breasts and 

 wings, and those white-feathered knickerbockers which 

 nature has so thoughtfully drawn over their rough 

 boots. And so you go on till the sun beats down with 

 concentrated heat, and the wind drops ; until scarcely 



