Snipe Shooting. 159 



but when he saw our friend he gave vent to a low growl, and turned 

 his back on him deliberately. 



A good Irish water spaniel is as good a dog as any when well under 

 command, as they take water well ; and their hair, being short, does not hold 

 so much wet, nor get frozen, but they are often high couraged and wild ; a 

 good one, however, is beyond price. My friend Rag has a snug thing on the 

 Avon, combining jack fishing with wild fowl and snipe. He has a capital 

 Irish spaniel, and many a good day I have had with him. As is the case 

 elsewhere, a good deal here depends on wind and weather. There are days 

 which are first-rate, but you must not miss them, for it is not unfrequently 

 with the snipe, "here to-day and gone to-morrow," if any sudden change 

 takes place in the wind or weather. So that when I get a telegram 

 from him that "to-morrow will do," my traps are collected without delay, 

 and I up anchor and start. 



Rag owns, or rather rents, a small bachelor box. It is a nice cottage with 

 a sitting room, and gun and tackle room, and two decent bed rooms over, 

 with kitchen, &c., beyond. He has an old fellow who acts as his keeper, 

 to whom, in consideration, he loans some watercress beds and a withy bed, 

 and who catches lots of coarse fish, roach and tench, &c., and acts besides 

 as waterman, looking after the hatches, &c., on the water meadows ; while 

 his wife, a notable woman in her way, cooks and does for Rag when he 

 is there. It is the snuggest little crib, with a warm shed for a pony 

 and cart, made of thick walls of furze and clay. The cottage in the summer 

 is well nigh smothered in clematis, honeysuckle, and china roses. The 

 garden, winter or summer, is rarely without some old-fashioned flower 

 or other; and herein, too. Old Mike picks up crumbs in the sliape of 

 cabbages and other vegetables. I know no place where I enjoy two or 

 three days so much. But snipes are to the fore, and I am en route to 

 see if my old skill has deserted me or no. 



Rag comes to the door as I stalk up from the small country station, with 

 the porter behind me fisting my etceteras. My welcome is warm, and 

 my traps are speedily stowed away, and in half an hour a fine brown 

 steak and a dish of fried "violets," with baked potatoes, make their entry, 

 and having settled them we talk over the morrow. 



