l6o BEATING THE SPRINGS AND THE WOOD. 



" You must be tired, Will ; good-night !" 

 said Staunton, as he finished his story. 



" Not at all. Do stay and have another 

 weed." 



"No; remember we must be up and doing 

 in the morning. Your uncle has already cut 

 out our work for us." 



Next day there was a thaw, the whole land- 

 scape was dripping, but luckily there was no 

 rain. Tom Redmond went off home, but 

 Staunton, Uncle Joe, and I shot our way back 

 to the 'Wisp.' The snipe lay capitally, and 

 my uncle's performance was again of surpassing 

 artistic excellence. 



Three weeks fled on in this fashion, and at 

 length Staunton and I took our departure to- 

 gether from the c Wisp.' I never saw my uncle 

 again. He died suddenly, and when I was too 

 far off even to be in time to be present at his 

 funeral. He sleeps in an old country grave- 

 yard, overshadowed by the hills, girt by the 

 moors, and above which the wild cry of the 



