SHOOTING 21 



the minutes passed slowly by and no game made 

 its appearance, I found myself gradually sinking 

 into that state of agreeable post-prandial torpor 

 which I have already described. From this I 

 was suddenly awakened by my loader, who 

 silently touched my elbow and pointed to a 

 large covey that was flying straight for my 

 butt. I lifted my gun, closed both eyes (as 

 is my invariable custom when more than 

 three birds are in the air at the same time), 

 and was about to fire, when my attention was 

 arrested by a singularly startling phenomenon. 

 From the very sky over my head, rising clear 

 above the flutter of a score of wings, there 

 came the sound of a still, small, resonant 

 voice speaking in accents that were undeniably 

 human. 



" Damn it all ! Don't push !" were the 

 words that fell upon my astonished ears, ut- 

 tered in an irritable tone which I shall never 

 forget to my dying day. " Damn it all ! Don't 

 push !" 



Alas ! too late I realized the explanation of 

 this portent. Before I had time to restrain it, 

 my finger had pressed the trigger, and in another 

 moment a mangled heap of grey and crimson 

 feathers lay at my feet. It was, of course, 

 Miss MacAlister's parrot that I had thus un- 

 luckily slain, and when I realized that the 



