From Fox's Earth 



opening out the black and golden-barred flight 

 feathers. They might not be partridges, but they 

 had a wild grace and were hard to hit. 



It seemed an easy shot when the wild duck 

 flapped away. But the bird kept on. The same 

 shot would have brought down a partridge. It 

 seemed to be hit, from the scattering of feathers, 

 or was it a mist of vanity ? The coat must be 

 thick, or the flight faster than it seemed. He 

 tried again with heavier metal ; and yet again, 

 till he could measure the distance. The spell 

 was upon him. In the new world of wild-fowl 

 was a charm, found neither in tame fowl nor in 

 the intermediate game. Sport had passed through 

 a new birth, and was once more virile. By day 

 was a wilder play of wings ; at night a mixed bag 

 and a fresh story. 



Even in the time of eternal grouse, pheasant, 

 and partridge, when all else was heresy, were 

 sportsmen, who, while taking their share in 

 orthodox sport, found the charm of the year in 

 being among the wild-fowl ; in visiting their 

 haunts, in knowing their ways, in taking the 

 chance of a hit or a miss. And in trudging home 

 from marsh, lake, or seashore, tired and wet, 

 bedraggled and happy. 



One points out how Scott seems to have been 

 ignorant of the charm of wild-fowling, when he 

 bemoans the inaction of snowclad winter, and 

 the emptiness of out-of-door life. Perhaps Scott 



234 



