KETURN TO TIFL1S. 315 



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ceaseless firing to get used to the snap-shooting 

 which is alone practicable in these dense coverts. 

 Wherever the forest was at all dry and this was 

 for the most part in fairly open places the rush and 

 glitter of a pheasant's noisy wings broke the mono- 

 tony of cock-shooting. Once, as I snapped at 

 one of the ghost-like little birds flipping over the 

 top of the thick bush with silent wing, that had kept 

 me engaged all the morning, the bushes at my feet 

 were parted with a crash. With an indignant 

 snort, and tail curling crisply over his retreating 

 quarters, the black form of an old boar afforded an 

 excellent mark for my second barrel. Luckily for 

 me he did not charge, or a rent in my waistcoat 

 might have rewarded me for foolishly assaulting so 

 formidable a foe with No. (>. 



Everywhere the forest was carpeted with flowers, 

 though the crocuses, of which my English corre- 

 spondent Mr. Maw was so anxious to obtain speci- 

 mens, had not unluckily shown their heads as yet. 

 The commonest flower of all was the crimson 

 cyclamen, and next to it its white congener. 



Day by day the story was the same. Cock- 

 shooting in the morning, a run with the dogs in 

 the evening, a merry night with Mr. Miiller in the 

 Shanty, but still no tidings of a feline foe. Let the 

 history of one day stand for that of many. An 

 hour's plodding through mud and slush on a bright 

 spring day, with every now and then a snap-shot at 



