WOODCOCK FIRE-HUNTING. 229 
“temperate,” and the fog rolls off the cold water into 
the river like steam ; an old “ fire-hunter ” says, “ this is 
just the night.” 
Whiz—whiz—hallo! What’s here? Sambo strike 
a light, and hoist it over your head. Now, friend, place 
yourself behind the torch, on the left, both of us in the 
rear to court the shade. Now, torch-bearer, lead on. 
Whiz—bang—whiz, bang—two woodcock in a minute. 
Bang, bang. Heavens, this is murder! Don’t load too 
heavy—let your charges be mere squibs, and murder 
away,—the sport is fairly up. 
The birds show plainly from three to ten paces all 
around you, and you can generally catch them on the 
ground, but as they rise slowly and perpendicularly 
from the glare of the light, with a flickering motion, 
you can bring them down before they start off like ar- 
rows into the surrounding darkness. Thank the stars 
they do not fly many paces before they again alight, so 
that you can follow the same bird or birds until every one 
is destroyed. Bang, bang—how exciting—don’t the birds 
look beautiful as they stream up into the light; the 
slight reddish tinge of their head and breast shining for 
an instant in the glare of the torch like fire. 
Ha! see that stream of gold, bang—and we have a 
meadow-lark, the bright yellow of its breast being more 
beautiful than the dull colors of the woodeock. And I 
see, friend, you have bagged a quail or two. Well, 
such things occasionally happen. ‘Two hours sport, and 
