IParaDtse Circle 



something done. A limpkin crying in the 

 rushes called me away from Chaucer; for 

 it had been down in my book of memo- 

 randa all winter that a limpkin I must have 

 to complete a study, yet so far the bird 

 had eluded me. To loop my quiver on 

 my belt, brace my bow, and set off across 

 the marsh was a trick in three motions, 

 done with the ease and certainty of ab- 

 solute habit. Self-consciousness departs 

 when unhindered enthusiasm arrives. I 

 could not see the bird, but my imagination 

 pierced the rushes and made out every 

 detail of form and feather. Expectation 

 braced all my bow-shooting muscles and 

 nerves. It is invariably a fresh delight to 

 the sylvan archer when an opportunity for 

 a shot seems about to come. 



When I broke through the rim of Para- 

 dise Circle to enter the marsh a woodcock 

 flew up at my toes and sped sharply 

 around a thorny bush — too sharply, indeed, 

 for it was caught in an extended spray of 

 spikes and held there fluttering a moment; 

 then it dropped almost straight to the 

 ground, where it ran a little way and hid 

 39 



