EXPERIENCES OF SPORT. 



" One cold winter's afternoon, in the middle of 

 December, many years ago, when I first took the 

 Champsbullant, a friend of mine, a Mr. Mac A., 

 an Irishman, and myself were returning home 



through the forest of Q n, after 'a hard day's 



shooting, where we had been rapping at the cocks 

 with tolerable success. It was getting dusk, 

 and being in the middle of the forest it looked 

 darker than it really was. Suddenly a large 

 white owl flew out of an ivy stump with a 

 plaintive 'too-whoo/ and perched in a tree a 

 little way ahead of us. ' By my sowl, it's an 

 owld witch/ cried Mac A., cocking his gun to 

 bring it down. ' Hold/ said I, ' it is a rare 

 bird in these parts ; it is a white owl' (I knew 

 he wanted it, for besides being a most super- 

 stitious person, one who would never dine at 

 table with thirteen, go a journey on a Friday, &c., 

 &c., MacA. was an enthusiastic stuffer of birds). 



" It was the first white owl I had seen in 

 France, and somehow or other, whether it was 

 for the sake of contradiction or what, I know 

 not, but my wish was to spare the bird. As we 

 approached it flew on with the same melancholy 

 too-whoo as before, and continued doing so till 



