180 FACT AGAINST FICTION. 



slaiigliterors wlio now infest the moor, the stubble, 

 and the cover. 



AVho, when jDartridge-shooting, noio thinks of 

 the setter or pointer, those gTaceful and grateful 

 companions of the leisure hour? What gunner 

 now cares to pause to snatch a momentary 

 glance at the yellow stubble, the ripened shocks 

 of corn, or the bright green of the fresh and 

 healthily-scented turnips ? The pigeon-educated 

 gunner cares only for the smoke, noise and 

 death, and puts his trust in the tramping 

 men in line to put up the partridges under 

 his feet; or if it is in a country where the 

 red-legged partridge abounds, the gunner seats 

 himself under a hedge, pipe in mouth, to have 

 the birds driven to him. 



There is no poetry in this — to me there is 

 little enjoyment; but, in my opinion, 'Hhe drive" 

 is infinitely preferable to the tramping up birds 

 in line. 



To me, on moor, on farm, or in the wood, it 

 is most delightful to have time to pause, and, so 

 to speak, to worship the beauties that surround 

 me. Wliat can be more delicious than on a fine 

 October day, when alone, and wandering for 



