The Misty Moorland. 95 



But the cock has met his fate. He is down. He flutters 

 a moment and is still. 



Is there any man who never knew the pang that 

 follows swiftly on the first keen flush of triumph, when, 

 with a flutter of failing wings, the noble bird falls, 

 struck down in mid-career; when the wanderer of 

 the air is dashed a helpless heap of feathers on the 

 ground ? 



Is there anyone who never felt a touch of remorse 

 as the beautiful eyes, fast fading in death, gazed up at 

 him, bold and fearless to the last ? 



The day wears on. After an hour's camp in a 

 sunny hollow Bill finds us another pack. We do 

 well. Ten fine cocks in all are slung on the saddle 

 of the little pony, and there is an ' accident ' or two 

 hidden away somewhere among the baggage. 



It is a good day's work. Ten birds, and five-and- 

 twenty miles of moor. 



As we strike across the heath and gain the old 

 miners' path, and plod cheerily homeward down the 

 hilly road, we wonder which is the greater happiness, 

 which the nobler sport five brace of birds earned by 

 honest toil among these noble wilds, or five hundred 

 shot down with the aid of a battery of guns, an army 

 of beaters, and all the machinery of a sanguinary 

 battue ? 



We have reached the edge of the moor. The 

 dusk is settling down over the lonely hills. Long 

 since the sun went down behind the low horizon. The 



