SOME SMOKING-ROOM YARNS 



THE Rector of a certain remotely situated parish in 

 Norfolk, although a rattling good sportsman at heart, 

 is an exceedingly bad shot. 



Squire D , who did not shoot, had given the parson 



permission to walk over the manor with a gun whenever 

 he felt so inclined. One day, during early September, 

 his reverence, accompanied by the Squire's head keeper, 

 went out to try and bag a brace of partridges. The 

 coveys were numerous and easy of approach. But 

 alas ! the good Rector couldn't hit them, and at the end 

 of a long morning's tramp amongst the stubbles and 

 turnips the " bag " totalled one humble rabbit only. 



Suddenly a big hare was put up from almost under the 

 reverend sportsman's feet. He let fly with both barrels 

 just as Madam Lepus bolted under a gate. 



' That is a dead hare anyway, Giles ! " cried the 

 parson to the gamekeeper. The latter did not deign to 

 reply at the moment, for he knew full well that the hare 

 was quietly loping across the next field unscathed. 

 Then walking up to the gate he carefully examined the 

 top bar of same, and said : 



: Tis a pity that ode heer sneaked under t' gate 

 instead o' leapin' over 'un. Like as not yer riverence 

 would heve hit she had she only jumped, for the top bar 



be fair smuddered with shot." 



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