CHRISTOPHER IN HIS SPORTING JACKET 



ish eyes, that the creatures near the earth, when but 

 little blue sky is seen between the specks and the 

 wallflowers growing on the coign of vantage — the 

 signal is given to fire; but the devilets are too high 

 in heaven to smell the sulphur. The starling whips 

 with a shrill cry into his nest, and nothing falls to 

 the ground but a tiny bit of mossy mortar, inhabited 

 by a spider! 



But the Day of Days arrives at last, when the 

 schoolboy, or rather the college boy, returning to 

 his rural vacation, (for in Scotland college winters 

 tread close, too close, on the heels of academies,) has 

 a gun — a gun in a case — a double-barrel too — of his 

 own — and is provided with a license, probably with- 

 out any other qualification than that of hit or miss. 

 On some portentous morning he effulges with the 

 sun in velveteen jacket and breeches of the same — 

 many-buttoned gaiters, and an unkerchiefed throat. 

 'Tis the fourteenth of September, and lo! a pointer 

 at his heels — Ponto, of course — a game-bag like a 

 beggar's wallet at his side — destined to be at eve as 

 full of charity — and all the paraphernalia of an ac- 

 complished sportsman. Proud, were she to see the 

 sight, would be the "mother that bore him"'; the 

 heart of that old sportsman, his daddy, would sing 

 for joy! The chained mastiff* in the yard yowls his 

 admiration; the servant lasses uplift the pane of their 

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