130 BEATING THE SPRINGS AND THE WOOD. 



tame, according to a custom amongst us, my 

 uncle is requested to take the first half-mile of 

 it to himself, and give us a lesson in snipe 

 shooting. Proudly, but with an initiatory 

 apology, Joe moves a little aside from the 

 bank, and then commenced ( a practice ' that 

 was only comparable to the performances of the 

 billiard champion, when he gets in position 

 for the spot stroke. In weather such as I have 

 been describing, the snipe leave the frozen 

 bogs and mountains, and pitch along the soft 

 edges of the flowing streams. To see the cool 

 deliberate deadly style in which my uncle, 

 when six or seven would get up together, used 

 to bring down his brace, was an instructive 

 spectacle. No cripples, no fluttering, and 

 hopping, and squeaking, followed after a shot 

 from my uncle's gun. The bird was rid of his 

 life before he could know it, and was fre- 

 quently thumped so as to rebound from the 

 earth by the charge of number eight at a dis 

 tance my uncle's invariable distance for snipe 

 of between twenty-five and thirty yards. 



We were quite silent with admiration, and 

 looked on without the least jealousy at the 



