120 The Farmer loves a Grun. 



boring land-owner between whose family and their 

 own friendly relations have existed for generations. 

 It is true that the practice becomes rarer yearl}^ as 

 the old st3'le of men die out and the spirit of com- 

 merce is imported into rural life ; the rising race pre- 

 ferring to make money of their shooting, by letting 

 it, instead of cultivating social ties. 



At Wick, however, they keep up the ancient 

 custom, and the neighboring squire takes the pick 

 of the wing-game. They lose nothing for their 

 larder through this arrangement — receiving presents 

 of partridges and pheasants far exceeding in number 

 what could possibly be killed upon the farm itself; 

 while later in the 3'ear the boundaries are relaxed on 

 the other side, and the farmer kills his rabbit pretty 

 much where he likes, in moderation. 



He is seldom seen without a gun on his shoulder 

 from November till towards the end of January. 

 No matter whether he strolls to the arable field, or 

 down the meadows, or across the footpath to a 

 neighbor's house, the inevitable double-barrel ac- 

 companies him. To those who live much out of 

 doors a gun is a natural and almost a necessary 

 companion, whether there be much or little to shoot ; 

 and in this desultory way, without much method or 

 set sport, he and his friends, often meeting and 

 joining forces, find sufficient ground game and wild 

 fowl to give them plenty of amusement. When the 

 hedges are bare of leaves the rabbit-burrows are 

 ferreted : the holes can be more conveniently ap- 

 proache'd then, and the frost is supposed to give the 

 rabbit a better flavor. 



About Christmas-time, half in joke and half in 



