THE FIRST OF SEPTEMBER. 199 



cut, we might walk down the stubble to the big root 

 field." 



Soon we are at the stubble, the dogs are taken up, 

 and we walk quietly down. A hare, who had her 

 form in that dry rut, bounces up, only to roll over, 

 scientifically killed. At the shot a covey rises a little 

 wild, but my old friend on the right has an " unerring 

 tube," and down go a brace. The covey drop in the 

 root field, where shortly after we get well among, and 

 pretty nearly exterminate, them. So the day goes on 

 and the sun gets hotter, till at last somebody says in a 

 tone of some relief, " There's the boy with the lunch." 

 Seated in the shade of yon high hedge, we do ample 

 justice to the good things put before us. Some food 

 gives place to tobacco and " just one glass of sherry," 

 while the remains of lunch afford ample occupation for 

 the jaws of the keeper and his assistants. It is 

 pleasant here in the shade, where the busy bumble-bee 

 comes droning along, and conversation gradually lags 

 till at last some one says, jumping up, " Isn't it time we 

 went on again ? " You start, half doubtful whether you 

 really have or have not been dozing, and perhaps the 

 shooting after lunch is not quite equal to what it was 

 this morning. But the birds lie well this hot afternoon, 

 and the shooting improves, till evening draws on, and 

 you tramp home quite satisfied with your day's work. 

 Then after your comfortable dinner, when the cigar- 

 smoke rises up, and the " gray hen " is tapped, you 

 kill your birds over again. For you the eternal 

 question of " driving or no driving " is settled for once, 

 and you all agree that no method of partridge- 



