2 TEN YEARS OF GAME-KEEPING 



night had horribly exciting dreams. One autumn 

 day my sister, brother, and I hit on the idea of run- 

 ning home, shrieking that we had been attacked by 

 poachers, and my brother's flaxen locks were freely 

 anointed with crushed blackberries to lend colour 

 to our story. On another occasion we three spied 

 a mistle-thrush's nest in an oak in a plantation. 

 I can still recall that sunny spot, an ideal one for 

 a pheasant's nest. Unfortunately, just as my brother 

 had climbed nearly to the nest the keeper spied 

 us. And how we ran ! We did a record half-mile 

 home, where we hid among the faggots in the wood- 

 shed. And it was a long time before we ventured 

 forth, though we, knew that a dinner was awaiting 

 us that included a jam roly-poly. We imagined 

 that at least we should be cast indefinitely into 

 prison. That terrible keeper is living still, and 

 whenever I see him we have a laugh over those 

 old adventurous days. 



I grew up in an atmosphere of dogs, traps, and 

 guns. My father had a small shoot, which pro- 

 duced chiefly partridges, hares, and a few pheasants 

 and rabbits ; and on this shoot I spent most of my 

 time that was not taken up with things more impor- 

 tant than sport. At every opportunity I sought the 

 society of the keepers in the neighbourhood of my 

 home, accompanied them on their rounds, and spent 

 many happy days with them, ferreting, in the winter 

 holidays. The art of trapping simply fascinated me. 



