Caccabis Chakor 95 



voices, loud and clear. So he proceeds along the 

 edge of the ravine, keeping a sharp look-out, his 

 attendant heaving stones down the sides. Sud- 

 denly, whirr, whirr, a big covey rise up from 

 under his feet and dive down into the gorge 

 behind him. Trying to swing round, he nearly 

 loses his balance on the sharp slippery rocks, but 

 manages to loose off one barrel at the birds 

 an obvious, hopeless miss. And after this manner 

 the day wears on. As the sun gets hot on the 

 hillside, the birds move higher up and get more 

 scattered, but not by any means less wary or 

 difficult to approach. The efforts our sportsman 

 makes are nothing less than heroic, but when for 

 the n th time he finds himself beaten by the birds 

 in a race uphill, a savage longing for a four- 

 bore duck-gun comes over him with which to 

 let drive into the brown at eighty yards. Legs 

 and lungs, he finds, have their limitations, and 

 he also discovers, much to his disgust, that with 

 heart going 200 to the minute his skill with the 

 gun has departed ; and when at length a stalk 

 is successful, his efforts are rewarded by misses. 

 His temper has in the meantime sadly deterior- 

 ated, hence his expressive language about the 

 birds, in which, as the Persians say, "he omits 

 nothing of a dishonouring character." Over his 

 return, however, we will draw a kindly veil. 



