92 WOODLAND, MOOR, AND STREAM 



' And what do you do with them then ? ' I asked. 



' Nails 'em up on the side o' the old barn along 

 o' the hawks an' the owls ; because, don't you see, in 

 my mind they belongs to the birds o' prey ; if they 

 don't they ought to ; they kills anything, and so I'll 

 do for they.' 



To have a stuffed heron is the ambition of many 

 would-be gunners, to put in a case and to be able to 

 say they shot it. One man I knew had a perfect 

 craze for it, amounting in time to an attack of heron 

 on the brain. Many were his plans and schemes to 

 gain his desire. If you happened to mention you 

 had seen a heron you were buttonholed at once. 

 ' Eh ! what ! Seen one ? Why, bless my soul, 

 where ? Eh ! Here, come and have a glass of 

 something and tell me all about it. Ah, it's always 

 the case ; anybody can see 'em but me ! ' 



A dozen could have been brought to him, but that 

 would not do ; he must shoot one himself. At last 

 news reached him that a heron came regularly, night 

 and morning, to a fishpond near a lonely farmhouse. 

 ' Could he see it ? ' Certainly he could. 



He went post-haste to the place, and sure enough 

 up rose the bird. Over unlimited grog, and amidst 

 the smoke puffed forth from long 'churchwardens,' 

 the question ' how to get him ' was discussed with the 



