XXVII 

 THE END 



f ^HE first of February was fine and 

 bright with us — quite a summer day. 

 It happened to be a busy one with me, too, 

 and I had no chance to empty my gun. In 

 fact, it was not till afternoon tea time that 

 it occurred to me it was the very last chance 

 in the '97-98 season to kill a cock pheasant. 

 The hens (birds being none too plenti- 

 ful with me) had been sacred for some 

 weeks. 



Tea being over, then, I went and got 



342 



