480 Notes on Sport mid Travel ix 



the best ' sporting ' songs in the world, and certainly 

 sing them better than any other people ; but (possibly 

 to their honour) be it spoken, it is certainly not 

 the sport itself that they care so much about. Too 

 happy in escaping but for one day in the season 

 from the thraldom of bureaucracy, and loving nature 

 for its own sake, they enjoy a day's shooting as 

 much, or perhaps more, than any one else ; but 

 little matters it to them, how many head are 

 bagged ; they plunge into the fresh, fine country 

 as into a bath, and positively wallow in the ' caller 

 air.' At last, having got through every song in 

 our Yagd-lied Buck, choruses and all, we got 

 under weigh, each one slinging his fancy game- 

 bag — worked in Berlin-wool by his ladie-love — 

 over one shoulder, and his gun over the other, 

 and girding himself about with his tasselled powder- 

 horn and shot-pouch, sallied forth. 



The dogs (shade of Sancho, such dogs !) scampered 

 and ran, and fought, and scratched their fleas, as 

 if the idea of scent had never crossed their canine 

 intellects. Possibly bored by the singing, which 

 they had duly accompanied by dismal howls, they 

 rejoiced in their freedom, and gamboled before us. 

 We, their soi-disant masters, formed into line, and 

 on reaching the first bit of scrubby stubble prepared 

 resolutely for action. 



We advanced for some time without meeting 

 with any signs of the enemy ; the dogs caracoled 

 and barked, and the men sang, and smoked, and 



