i 3 2 A BIRD COLLECTOR'S MEDLEY. 



walking-stick with which I had never even tried to kill on the wing before. 

 I refused several times, but at the end of the hedge was another at right 

 angles to it, and connected by a five-barred gate. As we approached I 

 remarked : " Well then, I'll pot it through the bars of that gate as it flies 

 across." I fired as it did so, and when we got up there lay the bird ! 



I bought soon afterwards a twenty-bore walking-stick gun, second-hand, 

 and an awesome weapon it proved to be. You never knew whether it was 

 or wasn't going off, and the man who sold it to me very untruthfully asserted 

 that it could be used with or without its detachable stock. I tried it the first 

 day at Aldeburgh without the stock, taking a sitting shot at what I hoped was 

 a Dusky Redshank. I held it at half the length of my arm, and the thing 

 came back like a piston, catching me just below my nose and knocking me 

 more or less silly. Though conscious that I was badly hurt, the wound was 

 somewhat numbed for the moment, and as the Redshank circled round 

 and pitched on nearly the same spot, I was idiot enough to fire again, 

 though this time I did so with my arm at full stretch. Again the gun 

 sprang back, and caught me this time on the forehead, though without 

 cutting it. I was now becoming painfully aware of the extent of my first 

 injury, and made off home as fast as I could. I found a gaping cut all along 

 the top of my moustache, and after it had been sewn up I went for a fortnight 

 in mortal dread of a sneeze, and without even the acquisition of the Dusky 

 to console me. I then returned the gun at a reduced price to the vendor, 

 and fancy he is likely to do a good business with it before it eventually 

 bursts, for I suspect the term " second-hand " was a bit of a euphemism 

 ven when I bought it. 



Once in Norfolk I fully believed that I was the witness of an actual 

 death. A man was shooting from a boat with very little regard for those 

 outside it, as I had already become aware. Another shooter was waiting 

 in an adjacent creek, and some shore birds came sailing over the sand. The 

 man in the boat followed them shamelessly towards the shore tramper 

 and fired. There was an awful shriek, and the man rolled over on his back, 

 waving his leg frantically to the accompaniment of the most blood-curdling 

 yells. We all rushed to the spot, the shooter ghastly to behold ; but 

 there was no tragedy in it after all. The fellow was shamming to give 

 the other man a lesson, and that he most certainly did. 



For the benefit of those who missed it, I cannot refrain from concluding 

 with a story that was published in the ' Globe.' The scene was a Highland 

 hotel, the hero a distinguished colonel returned from a day's shooting along 

 the shore. 



