30 WARWICK WOODLANDS. 



" Why ! what if you had got me there ?" 



"What? Whoy, Ay'd clap thee iv a cage, and hug thee 

 round t' feasts and fairs loike ; and shew thee to t' folks at so 

 mooch a head. Ay'se sure Ay'd mak a fortune o' t !'' 



" He has you there, Tom ! Ha ! ha ! ha !'' laughed Archer. 

 "Tim 7 s down upon you there, by George! Now, Frank, do 

 fancy Tom Draw in a cage at Borough-bridge or Catterick fair! 

 Lord! how the folks would pay to look at him! Fancy the 

 sign board too! The Great American Man-Mammoth! Ha! 

 ha! ha! But come, we must not stay here talking nonsense, 

 or we shall do no good. Show me, Tim, where are the quail !" 



" Doon i' t' bog meadow yonner ! joost i' t' slack,* see thee, 

 there !" pointing with the stout black-thorn ; " amang yon bits 

 o' bushes !" 



" Very well that 's it ; now let go the setters ; take Flash 

 and Dan along with you, and cut across the country as straight 

 as you can go to the spring head, where we lunched last year ; 

 that day, you know, Tom, when McTavish frightened the bull 

 out of the meadow, under the pin-oak tree. Well ! put the 

 champagne into the spring to cool, and rest yourself there till 

 we come *, we shan't be long behind you." 



Away went Tim, stopping from time to time to mark our 

 progress, and over the fence into the bog meadow we proceeded ; 

 a rascally piece of broken tussocky ground, with black mud 

 knee-deep between the hags, all covered with long grass. The 

 third step I took, over I went upon my nose, but luckily avoided 

 shoving my gun-barrels into the filthy mire. 



" Steady, Frank, steady ! I'm ashamed of you !" said Harry ; 

 "so hot and so impetuous ; and your gun too at the full cock ; 

 that 's the reason, man, why you missed firing at your first bird, 

 this morning. I never cock either barrel till I see my bird ; 

 and, if a bevy rises, only one at a time. The birds will lie like 

 stones here ; and we cannot walk too slow. Steady, Shot, have 

 a care, sir !" 



Never, in all my life, did I see any thing more perfect than 

 the style in which the setters drew those bogs. There was no 

 more of racing, no more of impetuous dash ; it seemed as if 

 they knew the birds were close before them. At a slow trot, 

 their sterns whipping their flanks at every step, they threaded 



* Slack Yorkshire. Anglice, Moist hollow. 



