2 8o THE COVERTS 



fed pheasant is one of the luckiest of living creatures. 

 He is reared from the shell in the lap of luxury, and 

 supplied with all the delicacies of the season, till he 

 chooses to vary his diet by strolling abroad. His 

 retreats are kept undisturbed, and his privacy is never 

 intruded upon, save by the raiding poacher, who must 

 make the venture at his peril. The pheasant must die 

 at last, like all of us, but even at the methodical battue 

 he has a fair chance. And when he falls to the crack 

 shot, it is a case of instantaneous collapse, and he is dead 

 before he rebounds from the grass. Then, if he were 

 grateful for all the care bestowed upon him, he should 

 rejoice to know that he may sell for a mere trifle in 

 warm weather, and furnish the cheapest of dainties for 

 the modest dinner party, as the rabbit is the luxury of 

 artisans in the manufacturing districts. So the pheasant 

 preserver who has reared his birds regardless of expense 

 is a benefactor to his species when he sends them to 

 market. 



But to return from the finish to the start. There 

 is the exhilarating walk from the house to the home 

 coverts, through sights that have inspired immortal 

 painters. The skeleton boughs of the lofty trees of the 

 rookery, with the rustle of their few and faded leaves, 

 standing out Corot-like against the sky in the greyness 

 of vanishing mists ; the group of gazing cattle standing 

 fetlock-deep in the withered bracken, suggestive of 

 Cooper or Rosa Bonheur ; the sheep that have huddled 

 together at the noise of the men and the yelping of the 

 retrievers, with the gleam on the fleecy backs that 



