AND AMERICAN RURAL SPORTS. AT 
servations. There isno doubt, that if they will consult 
their experience, they will find they have realized the 
truth of these leading points. 
I willventure to assert, that if landholders,in some favour- 
able portion of the country—say a considerable area in any 
cultivated part of New-Jersey, for instance—will make the 
experiment, and place the whole of their gameunder the pro- 
tection of a givennumber of Sportsmen, the increase of birds 
will be much greaterthan by any other method. I would not 
destroy the traps and snares of the farmers’ boys, but let 
them catch as many as they can. The Sportsman is to 
be unrestrained in regard to the number of days he wishes 
to hunt; but every other individual, with a gun, found tres- 
passing, must be turned off of the privileged spot; and I 
feel confident, that thts district would produce, every sea- 
son, a greater number of Partridges than any other of the 
same magnitude throughout the state. D. 
January 27, 1834. 
THE SCOTCH DOCTOR AND THE JACKALLS. 
Docror S was on board a Company’s ship lying 
at or near Diamond Harbour; and being short of amuse- 
ment, and feeling the bump of destructiveness more 
strongly developed than usual on the surface of his peri- 
cranium, he took up his gun, and went on shore to lay 
wait for the Jackalls. In his walk along the beach he en- 
countered the carcase of a dead buffalo—and, thinking 
himself sure of sport, lay down behind some bushes, and 
waited till the moon rose. Jackalls poured down from the 
woods by dozens, and began to pick the buffalo’s bones. 
The Doctor cocked his percussion—and thought to him- 
self, «‘The de’il my coveys!—boot I ha’ thee noo!— 
here gooes for wha’s the best mon, a Scot or a Jackall!’’ 
No sooner said than done,—the Doctor blazed away right 
and left, and through the cloud of his own smoke, dashed 
down the beach to bag his game! Alas! not a Jackall’s 
brush was singed!—and, to the Doctor’s consternation, 
instead of running away, the animals stood looking at him 
with much coolness; and though frightened by the report at 
first, they now began to collect round him, in great num- 
bers, as if unwilling to be choused of their booty. Dr. 
Ss thought they might relish a bonny Scotsman more 
than a carrion buffalo, and fumbled for his ammunition. 
But, unlike a wise general, he had left his powder-flask un- 
der the bushes; and the gaunt bony forms of the Jackalls were 
now stealing down towards him from that quarter. ‘¢ The 
de’il!—the de’ill!—but my retreat is cut ooff!”” wailed the 
Doctor; ‘‘ and the varmints look as if they would na 
mind abit o’ Christian flesh!”’ 
Strange and almost unparalleled as the incident may 
appear—and I had it from the Doctor himself—the hun- 
gry Jackalls, when a cloud passed over the moon, began 
to encompass him around, and yelping and grinning with 
their long fangs, forced the Doctor to back as they ad- 
vanced. 
Dr. S brandished his firelock, and shouted, “ Hoot 
awa! Hoot awa’ !” with all his vigour; but the cunning 
animals seemed aware of his being out of powder, and as the 
buffalo lay at the edge of the water, they fairly drove him 
into the river up to his chin, shrieking, ‘* Hoot awa!— 
hoot awa!—the de’il damn your mither’s sons!”*—and 
being unwilling to lose his powder-horn, and yet afraid to 
attack such a host of ‘‘hoongry beasts,?? he waited shi- 
vering in the limpid element for many hours, till the 
gray of morning induced his conquerors to retire. 
Nothing annoys the Doctor so much as the question: 
‘¢ Which is the best mon, Doctor, a Scot or a Jackall 2” 
I believe it was S$ *s first and last sporting excursion. 
He left off shooting on the wise principle of a cele- 
brated tiger-shot, who having killed nine, and narrowly 
escaped being torn in pieces by the tenth, relinquished the 
sport for ever : and, when jeered for his timidity, he coldly 
replied, «‘ Tiger-hunting is a delightful recreation while 
you hunt the z¢ger, but not quite so agreeable when the 
tiger takes it into his head to hunt you.” 
[London Sport. Mag. 
THE HUMMING BIRD. 
BY MRS. TURNER. 
Say, feather’d gem, of rain-bow dyes, 
With ruby breast and emerald wing, 
Gay glittering in the sunny skies, 
Like flitting flash of lightning. 
Say—is that busy, busy hum, 
Thy joyous song of love ? or fear 
Lest some rude rival bee, should come, 
Thy favourite flowers too near? 
Or canst thou from that tiny bill, 
A silvery lay of sweetness pour, 
The bosom of thy mate to thrill 
With fairy lover’s lore ? 
And can that little breast e’er beat 
With passion’s ardent glow? 
Feel anger’s stern, impetuous heat 
Or love’s fond fervour know ? 
