66 AN OLD SPORTSMAN. 



cannot well alter my position now. I am a 

 little nervous for a second as a fieldfare starts 

 up ; the dogs never stir. Nearer and nearer. 

 Nothing moves. Nearer still whir-r-r-r, and 

 a large bird springs under my very nose into, 

 as it seemed, the very disc of the sun. I fire 

 quite blindly, dazzled with the light, but I 

 hear the agreeable sound of a fall into the 

 turnips, and a roar from Joe that he's dashed 

 if it isn't one of Lord Gannin's pheasants. And 

 so it was ; and, I am sorry to say, a hen bird. 

 A pheasant was a rara avis with us that we 

 could not afford to let off. This bird had 

 strayed in some manner from his lordship's 

 preserves, about five miles from the spot. The 

 nobleman was particularly stingy about his 

 shooting, and neither Joe nor I were averse to 

 taking an odd toll from the big stock of game 

 it pleased him to keep up. 



The day is so fine that the plover are not 

 easy to approach. Far above us we can hear 

 the querulous cry of the lapwing or green 

 plover, but it is the golden plover we are after. 

 While watching a white billow of mist which 

 is born of the hoar frost from the valley, I note 



