TWO SHOTS 



in their direction, yet not a bird falls, 

 nor even a feather wavers down through 

 the still October air. His dim eyes re- 

 fuse to mark down the birds that alight 

 nearest ; he can only vaguely follow their 

 flight by the whirring rush of wings and 

 the click of intercepting branches. 



He is not ashamed of his loss of skill, 

 only grieved to know that his shooting 

 days are over, yet he is glad there is 

 no one near to see his failure. He 

 makes renunciation of all title to the 

 name of a crack shot, too well know- 

 ing that this is no brief lapse of skill, 

 but the final, inevitable falling off of the 

 quick eye and sure hand. Slowly and 

 sadly he makes his way to where the 

 shaded path merges into the sunny 

 clearing. There, from the cover of the 

 last bush, a laggard bird springs as if 

 thrown from a catapult, describing in 

 his flight an arc of a great circle, and 

 clearly defined against the steel-blue 

 sky. 



Again the gun springs instinctively to 



the shoulder, the instantaneous aim is 



taken well ahead on the line of flight, 



the trigger pressed in the nick of time, 



194 



