POTTERING 



" Come, old lady, let us go and potter." 



These words were addressed to an old Cocker spaniel 

 bitch who for a number of seasons past has been my 

 good friend and trusty servant, and who upon this 

 dull October morning is to accompany me round the 

 boundaries of a certain shoot amidst the Chiltern Hills. 



" Jet " clearly understands what is going forward, 

 for she lays at my feet an old rustic hat which I am 

 wont to wear a-gunning or angling, and which is orna- 

 mented with bedraggled-looking artificial flies of various 

 patterns — March Browns, Pheasant Tails, Alders, et 

 hoc. Dropping a few Nos. 6 and 7 shot cartridges into 

 the pocket of my coat — my better-half declares I com- 

 mandeered the dear old garment from some scarecrow — 

 I take a 12-bore gun, and with " Jet " twisting her 

 short black barrel almost into knots with delight, set 

 out with the intention of kilhng a brace of " hedgerow " 

 pheasants. 



The way to the shooting leads through an orchard, 

 one side of which is flanked by a high and thick quick- 

 set fence — a sure find for a rabbit. With a backward 

 glance over one shoulder as though to say, " Look out, 

 master, and I'll hustle out a bunny for you ! " " Jet " 

 disappears into the hedgerow. Ere many minutes have 

 passed, an excited little whimper from the old bitch 

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