CHRISTOPHER IN HIS SPORTING JACKET 



noch. Is that the plufFer at partridge-pouts who had 

 nearly been the death of poor Ponto? Lord Kennedy 

 himself might take a lesson now from the straight and 

 steady style in which, on the mountain brow, and up 

 to the middle in heather, he brings his Manton to the 

 deadly level ! More unerring eye never glanced along 

 brown barrel! Finer forefinger never touched a trig- 

 ger! Follow him a whole day, and not one wounded 

 bird. All most beautifully arrested on their flight by 

 instantaneous death! Down dropped right and left, 

 like lead on the heather — old cock and hen, singled 

 out among the orphaned brood, as calmly as a cook 

 would do it in the larder from among a pile of plu- 

 mage. No random shot within — no needless shot out of 

 distance — covered every feather before stir of finger — 

 and body, back, and brain, pierced, broken, shattered ! 

 And what perfect pointers ! There they stand, still as 

 death — yet instinct with life — the whole half-dozen! 

 Mungo, the black-tanned — Don, the red -spotted — 

 Clara, the snow-white — Primrose, the pale yellow — 

 Basto, the bright brow n, and Nimrod, in his coat of 

 many colours, often seen afar through the mists like a 

 meteor. 



So much for the Angler's and the Shooter's Prog- 

 ress — now briefly for the Hunter's. Hunting, in this 

 country, unquestionably commences with cats. Few 

 cottages without a cat. If vou do not find her on the 

 [19] 



