136 SHOOTING THE PARTRIDGE 



veins to fever pitch, and I have gone to my comfortable 

 bedroom feeling that life was really worth living. 

 This is, no doubt, good living ; but it will not mean 

 good shooting next day. After an almost sleepless 

 night breakfast will revolt your feverish eye, and the 

 hurried start still further discompose your turgid 

 brain and congested liver. The simplest partridge 

 will defeat you, and though you may kill a proportion 

 of birds from knowledge, you will achieve nothing 

 horn form, whilst even Schultz^or E.G. may not save 

 you from that peculiar class of 'head' which feels 

 after each shot like the opening and shutting of a 

 heavy book charged with electricity. This miserable 

 state of things always reminds me of the burly vendor 

 of hot potatoes in Leech's inimitable drawing, who 

 thus to the small boy in the big muffler on the pave- 

 ment holding his ' tummy ' with both hands, ' Made 

 yer ill, 'ave they ? Ah, that's 'cos yer aint accustomed 

 to 'igh livinV 



Well, you may or may not be accustomed to 'igh 

 livin', but high living and high birds never did go to- 

 gether, and unless you cut down the one you will never 

 bring down the other. Change of air and excitement, 

 the latter probably a much more frequent condition 

 of your mind than you are inclined to suppose or pre- 

 pared to admit, will upset any one ; but a very little 



