THE OLD WOOD 271 



partridge that came within range of the dog's nose 

 but his longings were not gratified. Out in the fields 

 the dog was sent for the first bird his master shot, 

 a runner. Away went the dog with unusual speed ; 

 he picked up the bird, and then quietly sat down and 

 made a meal of it. Having had his breakfast, he did 

 his work handsomely for the rest of the day. 



The first covert shoot has a peculiar charm for the 

 sportsman especially when the shoot is in familiar 

 woods. There has grown a feeling of friend- 

 ship for the old rides and trees, and they 



seem to offer a warmer welcome every year. 

 He comes to the historic corner where he failed miser- 

 ably to do justice to a rush of pheasants. Here is 

 the opening through which his first woodcock tried to 

 glide in vain. He remembers, perhaps, that even now 

 he has that woodcock's two pen-feathers in the depths 

 of some ancient purse. Here was where he scored a 

 double at partridges hurtling through the tree-tops 

 only to be beaten a moment later by a hare, slowly 

 cantering. Nothing has changed in the woods. 

 They wear the same old look of nakedness ; save for 

 a hurrying pigeon, there is the same desolate lifeless- 

 ness. Nothing stirs, but the leaf fluttering to earth ; 

 all is dead quiet. Then in the distance is heard the 

 prelude of the beaters' sticks tap, tap, tapping. 

 The sportsman dreams, musing of past days and their 

 great deeds. Then a lithe moving form catches his 



