WOODCOCK, SNIPE, AND PLOVER. 259 



from the vines. "'Tis a real wonder as gentlefolks 

 doesn't pisen theirselves," was the universal comment 

 on this statement. Good vegetables from a gentle- 

 man's garden I have often known refused with scorn. 

 "They never had eat 'em, and they waun't a-goin' 

 to use 'em now." 



The woodcock is the prince of his family. Note 

 him as he steps out from under the drooping branches 

 of juniper and holly, where he has been bunched up 

 on the dead bracken and withered mottled leaves that 

 match his exquisitely pencilled plumage of browns, 

 fawns, drabs, and smoke-greys, barred and scrawled 

 over with still darker tones, that are neither black nor 

 brown. So perfectly does the plumage fall in with the 

 tones of his resting-place that a man might almost 

 touch him in passing by and, in fact, such has often 

 been the case. Only his glorious eye, formed like that 

 of the owl to catch all the rays of light in the gloam- 

 ing, might betray the bird's whereabouts to the wan- 

 dering naturalist, who slips round his haunts by day 

 with movements as quiet as those of the rabbits that 

 dot about, near his hiding-place. Scientists have stated 

 that the woodcock is a night-feeder. I have no wish 

 to dispute as to that ; but it is on comparatively 



