128 SHOOTING THE PARTRIDGE 



save where, one black speck upon the steel, the hardy 

 collier ploughs along, daring the wintry dangers of 

 the North Sea. As the tardy December sun peeps 

 from the haze, the chirping call from all parts of the 

 heath and from the light lands in front and to the 

 west tells that the coveys scent the growing danger. 

 Dull in tone, and weird in form against the sky, the 

 Norfolk plover makes away towards the sea, as a 

 far-off shout tells of the drive begun, and light reports 

 of other guns booming from more than one quarter 

 remind you that this is the king of game-counties, 

 and that all the world the Norfolk world-- is out 



shooting. 



Ille terrarum mihi prceter omnes 

 Angulus ridet. 



Again the scene is changed. You stand on Itchen 

 Down, and while you sniff the bracing air you strain 

 your eyes to mark, amid the blue distance, beyond 

 the rolling slopes of sheltering woods and open field, 

 the spire of Salisbury or the clustering towers of 

 William of Wykeham ; to trace the specks of light 

 that tell where the silver stream of Test gives back 

 the November rays, or to wonder whether, far in the 

 south-west, your eye can reach to where the great 

 ocean liners are thundering up and down the Solent. 

 The tinkle of sheep-bells strikes sharply on the ear, 



