180 IN THE LAND OF THE BORA. 



quack, and, totally disregarding the charge of 

 small shot which I bestow on him, goes straight 

 off for the Blato Marsh. Having got my cock, 

 I cross the polje (plain), intent only on getting 

 to the other side, and consequently am " the 

 unready " when the dogs rout three partridges 

 out of a hedgerow. There is another brace there, 

 though, and one swings towards me, and is added 

 to the bag. I had hardly expected to find so 

 strong a covey here in December, for this is the 

 happy hunting-ground of the Sunday sportsman. 

 At last I am clear of the vineyards, and approach 

 a typical bit of ground, which I must try and 

 describe. At first blush one would say the hill 

 is all stones, but, as a matter of fact, though there 

 is not a tree on it, there are a good many stunted 

 thornbushes, cropped close by the goats, and here 

 and there a few blades of grass. Besides this there 

 is a quantity of a grey sage-like plant, whose seeds, 

 as I have before said, form the favourite food of the 

 stone-hen, and impart to it a flavour which makes 

 many people refuse to eat it. A dry watercourse 

 forms the best way up, and is bad at that. As 

 I am about halfway up a whistle of wings attracts 

 my attention, and I fire (fruitlessly, of course) at 

 the last of a score of blue rocks, and register for 

 the hundredth time a vow never again to waste 

 a cartridge on pigeons passing overhead. When 

 near to the top of the hill, I turn left handed and 



