RAMBLES AFTER SPORT. 



A WEEK'S DUCK SHOOTING AT 

 POOLE. 



" Onnered Sir the buds ar plenti and the frust gud 

 pleese kum i as got the punt an Bill as got the bote awl 

 redy i egspeg you tomor mawnin yours dan/' 



The above is an exact facsimile of a letter I received 

 one December afternoon. When interpreted it simply 

 meant that honest Old Dan, the well-known Poole gunner 

 of ten long years ago [eheu fugaces ! he^s dead and gone 

 now) had been true to his promise, and had sent me 

 word that there were lots of birds in the bay, and the 

 frost was likely to hold ; that his son Bill had got the 

 fishing smack all " fixed up/^ and that he expected me 

 to-morrow morning. As I knew that Dan's morning 

 meant about three or four o'clock in the night, I immedi- 

 ately ordered round the trap, in which I deposited three 

 of the largest horse rugs I could find in the stable, much 

 to the disgust of the groom, who declared, '^ all on them 

 'ere 'osses wud be as dead as mackrils when I cum back 

 of the influenzee." Better the 'osses than myself I 

 thought. I next made friends with the cook — I always 

 am friends with that important personage if I possibly 



