BRITISH GAME-BIRDS. 203 



day and the sun has gone down, leaving a great 

 broad line of saffron light edging the tops of the 

 distant hills, with a great mass of warm grey rain- 

 clouds above it. Plovers come flapping from the 

 sheep-walks on the hills above to the freshly turned 

 furrows below; it is too dusky to see them after 

 they have settled, but their murmuring Weet- 

 weets fall on the ear; and then comes the Chir- 

 chir-chir-chir-chir up-up-chir-er-er, chir-chir-up, 

 of the partridges with a rush. Others sail over- 

 head as we lean over the old wooden gate that 

 leads into the field ; and a long jerking shadow 

 flits past us, crossing the furrows, it is a solitary 

 hare that is hastening to join a regular hare frolic 

 on the slopes of the upland pastures. 



No game-bird that I am acquainted with is more 

 able to take care of itself than the partridge is. 

 I have known the birds lose their wits at times 

 under exceptional circumstances, but not very 

 often, for the partridge is the picture of dashing 

 alertness. 



It has always been a joy to me to see a large 

 covey melt away, so to speak, out of sight in a 

 fallow field where they have been confidently feed- 



