ORNITHOLOGICAL RAMBLES. 123 



branded on the memory of more than one luckless 

 would-be-sportsman. " 



From some turnip-field hard by a plantation, or a 

 tuft of rushes close to a copse on a moist hill-side, up 

 springs a russet-plumaged bird, and is in the covert in 

 a moment. 



' The eager shooter " catches a glintse on 'in," as an 

 old keeper used to say, through the trees. Bang goes 

 the gun. "That's the first cock of the season!"" 

 exclaims he, exultingly. 



Up comes John, who has been sent ostensibly to 

 attend him, but really to take care of him. 



"I'm sure he's down," pointing to the covert as 

 many are apt to say when they shoot at a cock without 

 being able to produce the body. 



" Well, let's look, sir. Where did a' drop ?" " There, 

 just by that holly." In they go, retriever and all. 



" There he lies," cries the delighted shot, loading his 

 gun triumphantly in measureless content, " dead as 

 Harry the Eighth. I knew he was down there 

 just where I said he was, close by that mossy stump. 

 Can't you see ?" 



" Iss, sir, I sees well enough, but I don't like the 

 looks on 'in ; his head's a trifle too big, and a' do lie 

 too flat on his face." 



" Pick up the cock, I say," rejoins our hero, some- 

 what nettled. 



" I can't do that, sir," says John, lifting up a fine 



