126 BEATING THE SPRINGS AND THE WOOD. 



for the soft fields, fields with springs in them, 

 surrounded by screens of dwarf firs. It is as 

 yet pitch dark. The road is as hard as steel, 

 and the wind is absolutely numbing. Uncle 

 Joe, Staunton and Jack Sullivan are smoking, 

 but I always dread the effect of tobacco on my 

 nerves immediately after breakfast. 



Dawn comes, slowly and reluctantly at first, 

 but when the sun once gets his shoulder up, 

 the light steals on apace, and with it, hark ! 

 the pipe of the golden plover. 



" Load, boys ! " 



My uncle after this order, like a skilful 

 general, points out the places we are to take, 

 for you may be sure he knows the field in 

 which the birds are. 



Peeping cautiously over a hedge at a signal 

 whistle from Joe, we see a big detachment of 

 a stand in the centre of an orchard stubble. 



My uncle surveys them with a view to 

 measuring the distance. At that moment the 

 sentinel bird once more gives a shrill warning, 

 and in an instant the plover are on the wing, 

 and rushing right into my face. 



Bang ! bang ! hurrah ! they have been 



