IN THE LAND OF THE BORA. 135 



sling your gun to enable you to use both hands, 

 or perhaps are reaching down a tentative leg in 

 the hopes of rinding secure foothold — whirr ! 

 the bird rises. 



Lucky for you if you are able to get steady 

 footing enough to shoot. Three sweeps of the 

 wing have carried the bird into the wind, which 

 has apparently been trying to thrash you off the 

 rocks all the morning, and down which he goes 

 at once with a velocity that it would take a driven 

 partridge a quarter of a mile to attain. Never- 

 theless you hold on to him, as his stagger and 

 the backward twist of his head (sure sign of a 

 sorely wounded bird) show. But the wings are 

 unbroken, and keeping them spread out he sweeps 

 down the hillside, to fall at length — dead, no 

 doubt, but beyond your ken, or the recovering 

 powers of the keenest and best of retrievers, if 

 you had such a one with you. 



Meanwhile the dogs are busily bustling round 

 about you. Very probably there are more birds 

 about, perhaps a covey. You are standing at your 

 ease now, ready for anything. Whirr ! again. You 

 have the comfortable feeling of " My bird this 

 time," and the gun goes up surely and comfort- 

 ably. Blessings on the man who invented 

 smokeless powder, and thereby added to the 

 pleasures of the sportsmen, that of being able 

 to see the immediate result of his shot instead 



