188 WILD FOWL SHOOTING. 



ing, breathing, and enjoying animation. So true are they 

 to life that we imagine if the glass door to their sepul- 

 chre were opened, with a loud whirr they would arise 

 and flee from the hated presence of man. Four are 

 males, three females. They are in crouched position, 

 three pairs, while the odd one, an old cock, stands up 

 in the majesty of his strength, the chosen sentinel of 

 the little party, looking wildly around, as if to espy 

 some hidden danger. Thus he stands, silently, grandly, 

 while his companions, having implicit faith in his guar- 

 dianship, pluck the berries from the tiny bushes and 

 pick from off the ground the scattered seeds. The 

 scene is true to life, one that every hunter of these birds 

 has frequently witnessed. What a labor of love it 

 must have been to the man who arranged the cage. 

 Not only did he exhibit his skill as a taxidermist, but 

 he displayed artistic taste that only could have been be- 

 gotten of an inherent love for his chosen profession. 

 The graceful attitudes of the birds, the bent, dried 

 grass, the drooping bushes, from which dried berries 

 hang suspended, the miniature trees, leafless and indic- 

 ative of approaching winter ; the moss-covered rocks, 

 the sere and brown-carpeted earth, all tend to show 

 the skill of the taxidermist and the practical knowl- 

 edge he must have possessed of the appearance, habits 

 and resorts of these game birds. Sitting as I am in > 

 their charming presence, it gives me a double pleasure* 

 in inscribing with pen and ink a testimonial to their 

 beauty and worth. What a thrilling sense of recollec- 

 tion they bring up to me, when with staunch pointer 

 or steady setter I have hunted these strong flying birds. 

 The sweet memories of years bring back the event as if 

 it were but yesterday. Months, a decade of years, a 



