IN THE LAND OF THE BORA. 345 



was the order of the day — a most tantalizing close 

 to the season. Woodcock-shooting, however, 

 makes up for a great deal. It is hard to say 

 wherein its great fascination lies, but it is the 

 only small game that to most of us compensates 

 for the want of bigger. Both banks of the 

 river below Glavaticevo are ideal places for 

 woodcock, but by no means for woodcock-shoot- 

 ing. The birds mostly lie in the high osier beds. 

 (By the way, the natives seem to have no idea 

 of the economic value of the willow, only using 

 the shoots for wattle fences.) When flushed, 

 the birds generally cross the river. Besides this, 

 there are a number of islands, one a good acre 

 in extent, which I have often had cause to 

 anathematize when a flushed cock dropped among 

 their bushes. To show the difficulties of the 

 sport, on one day that I kept count I had two 

 shots, one a long one, out of ten flushes. It 

 must not be imagined that I could only flush 

 ten birds a day, but, as a matter of fact, I only 

 went out between showers, never for more than 

 a couple of hours at a time. With a steady 

 setter I could no doubt have done better than 

 with dachshunds, which lose one many a shot 

 by following birds which drop within a short 

 distance. The weather, too, turned warmer 

 throughout Europe very soon, and I dare say this 

 checked the migration. At any rate, it only lasted 



