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fully situated for deer, if it pleased its owner to 

 have them, while at the same time there is water 

 enough for wildfowl and pike fishing to any amount, 

 provided its resources on that head were developed 

 and nursed. I am perfectly convinced that the large 

 piece of water, or sort of mill lake that there is there, 

 could be made an excellent decoy for wildfowl for the 

 gun. I shall never forget a day's pheasant shooting at 

 Prestwood on a beat wherein we had to shoot on small 

 hills, on either side low places or valleys — a species 

 of ground which always requires great care from the 

 shooter, or he may hit his friend on the opposite side. 

 Known as a safe hand with a gun, I was selected by 

 my good friend to walk the dangerous line, but as 

 luck would have it an accident did occur. Mr. Henry 

 Foley was attended on that day by a little boy, the 

 son of a labourer, to pick up and carry his game, 

 when on the rise of a pheasant above as well as out 

 of his line, I killed the pheasant, and at the same 

 time cut off a young tree as thick as my arm, which 

 had the effect of scattering the shot, some of them in 

 oblique directions. My surprise was great, when I 

 heard the cry of Mr. Henry Foley's boy at his heels, 

 and saw him tumble backwards, exclaiming that he 

 was a dead man, or something very like it. I could 

 not cross the deep narrow valley just there, but I saw 

 Mr. Foley run up, and with his son stand over and 

 gaze on the boy. When I arrived, the boy's mouth 

 was full of blood, he lay on his back, his hand a little 

 raised towards his face, speechless, and making the most 

 fearful contortions of countenance, his eyes steadily 

 fixed on Mr. Foley's spectacles, the wearer of which 

 had questioned him in vain. I could not make it out, 

 there was an odd collected look about the boy which 



