THE WOODCOCK. 37 



from the dog's nose, sitting on the mud, the bird 

 we had come to find. Perhaps fresh mud was 

 on his bill from the numerous small holes around 

 him where he had been breakfasting late. His 

 strangely-shaped head was drawn back until its 

 rich colors blended with the rosewood hues of 

 the back, and the deep, tender eye was quizzing 

 us with sublime indifference to the dog. And 

 when with spiral twist he whirled into the bank 

 of leaves over our heads before we could turn 

 around, and nothing but leaves and dead sticks 

 responded to the fierce volley we opened upon 

 him, we still felt glad we had not shot at him on 

 the ground. 



Again, when we would miss the dog, we might 

 find him only by the quivering tip of his tail pro- 

 jecting from a thick mat of reeds beside some 

 heavy timber into which the brown wings would 

 fade in speed that left us no time to take aim. 

 i Yet we followed the line with memory's eye, and 

 fancied there was a gentle fall of something soft 

 amid the leaves and twigs that followed the shot. 

 And sometimes we found our dog in a dense 

 clump of saplings, with one forefoot on a fallen 

 log he was about to cross when he caught the 



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