WOODCOCK SHOOTING. 79 



At that inexplicable instant, even while your 

 mind is oppressed with its new feeling, the voice 

 of old Barleycorn is heard loudly calling for 

 you to come down. Accordingly, down you go ; 

 and before you are up to what he is after, he 

 carries you out on the porch and bids you listen. 

 For a few moments you distinguish nothing but 

 the hoarse bay of some neighbor's farm dog, 

 echoed back by your pointer in the stable, and 

 the subdued, familiar roar of the rushing wa- 

 ters ; but old Truepenny, who knows what he 

 is about, lays his hand on your arm, and then, 

 for the first time in your life, you hear those 

 mysterious and much-disputed notes, which 

 Nuttall and one or two others have described so 

 well. 



Your hat and storm-jacket are on, and the old 

 man, omnipresent, leads you down to the low 

 grounds, where, careless of agues, he hides you 

 under an alder bush, and both remain quiet as 

 death. 



Presently the woodcock's loud quack strikes 

 your ear, apparently within a few yards ; the 

 farmer points in the air ; you catch a fleeting 

 glimpse of the bird as he mounts, and at the 

 same moment hear a low, hurried, quavering 

 hum, which seems like an imperfect attempt at 



