THE FIRST OF SEPTEMBER. 197 



Partridge-shooting, like snipe-shooting, is essen- 

 tially a poor man's sport. Unless it be in the 

 Eastern Counties, there are few places in England 

 where a good shot cannot count on getting some 

 days every September, and, perhaps, better still, 

 the right of shooting over some unpreserved 

 ground. When a boy I was very fortunate in 

 this respect. The district in which I lived was 

 almost wholly unpreserved, or only nominally pre- 

 served. A kind neighbour, the Duke of , gave 



my father permission for me to shoot such a large 

 extent of ground, that I could walk four or five 

 miles on end without going off it. How I used to 

 revel in the permission ! Breakfast over, my lunch was 

 thrust into my game-bag, dogs let loose, and I was 

 rapidly mounting the six hundred feet of hill that 

 rose steeply behind the house. The ground over 

 which I had permission to shoot afforded every facility 

 for rough shooting. Much of it was heather-covered 

 moor, much woodland of various ages ; there were 

 some small and not too well-cultivated farms ; and 

 there was a snipe- bog. Over this I would wander 

 all day, enjoying equally the pure air of the hills and 

 the surprises of the sport, for there was not enough 

 game for my bag to be a matter of certainty. Still, 

 there was game, and my game-bag generally contained 

 some half-a-dozen head when I returned home at 

 night. Partridges, snipe, rabbits, hares, and later in 

 the year, pheasants and woodcock made up the bag, 

 which, however, was not often heavy enough to in- 

 convenience me in the carrying it. One day, I re- 



