46 The Confessions of a Poacher. 



hard to win us to the old hard life of sport ; 

 but still the land must be cleared. There was 

 a double pleasure in the ruddy sheaves, for 

 they told of golden guineas, and until the 

 last load was carried neither nets, gins, nor the 

 old duck-gun were of any use. The harvest 

 housed the game could begin, and then the 

 sweet clover, which the hares loved, first 

 pushed their shoots between the stubble stalks. 

 But neither the hares on the fallows, the 

 grouse on the moor, nor the pheasants on the 

 bare branches brought us so much pleasure as 

 the partridge. A whole army of shooters love 

 the little brown birds, and we are quite of 

 their way of thinking. 



A long life of poaching has not cooled our 

 ardour for this phase of woodcraft. At the out- 

 set we may state that we have almost invariably 

 observed close times, and have rarely killed a 

 hare or game-bird out of season. The man 

 w T ho excels in poaching must be country bred. 

 He must not only know the land, but the 

 ways of the game by heart. Every sign of 

 wind and weather must be observed, as all 



