52, AN OLD SPORTSMAN. 



squirted with emphasis through the barrels, 

 occasionally drenching a cat or a hen that 

 might happen to be on the spot, in order to 

 interest me more deeply in the proceedings. 

 At the mature age of eight, I have trudged to 

 i snipe bog with Uncle Joe, and being told 

 by him to mark where a bird was to fall, have 

 been caught with my eyes firmly closed in 

 nervous expectance of the noise which, at first, 

 had infinite terrors for me. I soon got over 

 this, however, and well remember the time 

 when, with the heavy old fowling-piece held to 

 my shoulder by Uncle Joe, and directed by 

 him (his finger pressing mine on the trigger), 

 we, between us, compassed the death of a 

 blackbird, which I subsequently insisted upon 

 eating. After that I had a little single gun 

 for myself, and committed havoc amongst star- 

 lings, sparrows, and such small fry. But Uncle 

 Joe was constantly prompting me to nobler 

 deeds. He held out a tempting reward for my 

 first snipe. It was no less than Sill, a beautiful 

 jet-black pointer. How I toiled to win this 

 prize ! We had plenty of marshes in the 

 vicinity, and when Uncle Joe decided for a 



