PARTRIDGE SHOOTING. 1?7 



his ears, than the sweet south's sighing over- 

 tures, or all old autumn's jEolian music. 



" Full of the expected sport my heart beats high, 

 As with impatient steps I haste to reach 

 The stubbles, where the scattered grain affords 

 A sweet repast to the yet heedless game. 

 Near yonder hedge-row where high grass and ferns 

 The secret hollow shade, my pointers stand, 

 How beautiful they look ! with outstretched tails, 

 With heads immovable and eyes fast fixed, 

 One fore leg raised and bent, the other firm, 

 Advancing forward, presses on the ground." 



This is the language of an enthusiastic sports- 

 man, talking in blank verse, and, with the ex- 

 ception of the last line, is as it should be. He 

 says not a word, you perceive, about the beau- 

 ties of the season ; all is merged in the sporting 

 picture before him. He is an Englishman, it is 

 true, poor fellow, and the autumns of his country 

 are rather brown affairs ; but the fact is, the rise 

 and fall of empires is nought to him, at that 

 precious moment when his " pointers stand ;" 

 and it is this vivid filling up of the scene, this 

 direct and glorious presentation of itself, to the 

 utter exclusion of all other objects, together with 

 a lurking love for gunpowder, which places the 

 modern Nimrod in a charmed circle, and gives 

 its fascination to the sport. " I low beautiful 

 they look !" By the way, an excellent rule for 



