SPRING WOODCOCK SHOOTING IN GERMANY. 277 



couple of young firs. There is a handy place for 

 a seat, too, so I lay my fringed game-bag on it and 

 sit down. The woods are alive with song, thrushes 

 and smaller birds all uttering their last notes for the 

 day. The woodcock are late to-night. The shadows 

 deepen over the valley .; but I could still see to shoot 

 on the ground. At last a peculiar sound something 

 between a whistle and a quack reaches my ear, 

 and a woodcock sweeps over a line of firs to my left, 

 only to fall with a splash into the edge of the pond. 

 The next one comes rather low and I miss him, but 

 before I can reload two more appear, and I get one 

 with the left barrel. A few minutes afterwards several 

 come together, but I only get one chance, and that one 

 I bag. A little later I get another, and before I can 

 get the gun down another. Then a miss, and so it 

 goes on. 



At last it is nearly dark, but I can just see another 

 against the sky, and miss him. Though I cannot say 

 I really see him still, I know his line and speed, and I 

 fire again, and to the shot follows a splash at the 

 far end of the pond a fluky ending to my evening's 

 sport. Now I proceed to collect my bag, a proceeding 

 attended with a good deal of difficulty and some 

 burning of matches. At last I have six birds, and 

 now for the one on the pond. Fortunately, the last 

 waning light on the water shows him up in some 

 rushes, but I have to cut a sapling ash and fish for 

 some time before I can get him. 



Now to put my best foot foremost to get home in 

 time to dress for dinner. 



