DAYS IN THE STUBBLES 51 



There is something so satisfactory about a 

 pheasant, from his guttural "cock-cock" and 

 the splutter of his wings as he rises to the 

 heavy thud when he falls. He is a generous 

 bird, and gives full notice of his approach; 

 if he gets safely past it's all your own stupidity 

 and lack of skill or quickness. He cannot be 

 blamed as a sneak, as the singleton grouse or 

 partridge may, for whizzing by without any 

 warning. 



The sound of the pigeons in the trees by the 

 burn brings back other scenes. An autumn 

 evening high up on a wooded hillside, when 

 the setting sun lights up with gorgeous 

 splendour the gold and russet and grey of 

 massive beech trees, the velvet of stately firs ; 

 where the cushies come for their supper and 

 their roost. There are myriads of them, and 

 their flight is that of rippling, quiet laughter, 

 that is like nothing else. Listening to it one 

 forgets or forbears to shoot, for fear of break- 

 ing the spell and scaring away that wonderful 

 sense of sound as it sweeps to and fro, making 

 the air throb to our listening ears, the music 



