3 o8 A YEAR OF SFORT AND NATURAL HISTORY. 



pheasant rises with an amazing commotion. Although in the 

 agonies of a struggle through a horribly tough bit of juniper, I let 

 go, and have the pleasure of seeing the greater portion of the bird's 

 tail carried away by the shot, and its owner departing but little the 

 worse ; then comes the report of Jack's gun, and I have hardly 

 realized the fact that I have gone through the interesting process 

 of having my "eye wiped," when up gets another "long-tail," 

 which comes down to my first barrel, spread-eagle fashion. Two or 

 three more hens are let off, a woodcock causes the discharge of 

 four cartridges, which do not appear to inconvenience it in the 

 least, and we make our way to the " Bog," an extensive tract of 

 moorland interspersed with patches of turnip, clumps of stunted 

 pine-trees, and bits of marsh. 



A snipe is the first thing added to the bag, and having marked 

 down another, I am poking about for it in a very wet bit when a 

 fine mallard rises. My first barrel brings down the duck and puts 

 up the snipe, which falls to my second shot, altogether a useful 

 right and left. The first patch of turnip we enter is drawn a blank, 

 but in the second a covey of partridges get up, out of which Jack 

 knocks over a brace, and a third, that had sat close, later on. 

 Then we drop upon no less than three cock in one spot, but only 

 get two of them, the third, although wounded, succeeding in eluding 

 Fan's best efforts to recover. These are followed by sundry snipe, 

 seven of which, and another splendid mallard, are accounted 

 for in rapid succession. But the short winter's day is draw- 

 ing to a close, the sun is setting in a frosty haze, and although 

 the gymnastics necessitated by our perambulations in the " Bog " 

 have made us warm, the air strikes keen and chill. We are further 

 warned that it is high time to give up by the outrageous muddle 



