OCTOBER. 



ROUGH SHOOTING. 



BY H. A. S. PEARSE. 



THE man who can rent a thousand acres of rough shooting 

 ground on the borders of a certain moorland I know of has 

 material for health and contentment within his reach. He need 

 not envy pheasant preservers their big battues, nor deer-stalkers 

 their wide domains. If it be no more than a mere strip averaging 

 five hundred yards wide and following the tortuous course of a 

 river from rush-grown moor to wooded valley, so much the better 

 for chances of sport within its limits. With breechloader in hand 

 and a brace of spaniels for companions, one may wander about 

 the ridges and hollows of such ground week after week in 

 proper season without exhausting its resources of feather and fur, 

 or finding the frequent repetitions of familiar scenes monotonous. 

 A keen observer of nature sees endless variety within the 

 narrowest limits. Now it is the colour of foliage and ferns that 

 changes, or the form of trees as they cast off the gold- 

 embroidered vesture of regal autumn, or the river churned by 

 winter floods into foam that whitens tawny pools whereon, in rich 

 mosaic, leaves, flowers, sky, and sunlight cast their clear reflec- 

 tions but a few months ago ; and now the notes of animate nature 



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