128 SHOOTING THE PARTRIDGE. 
save where, one black speck upon the steel, the hardy 
collier ploughs along, daring the wintry dangers of 
the North Sea. As the tardy December sun peeps 
from the haze, the chirping call from all parts of the 
heath and from the light lands in front and to the 
west tells that the coveys scent the growing danger. 
Dull in tone, and weird in form against the sky, the 
Norfolk plover makes away towards the sea, as a 
far-off shout tells of the drive begun, and light reports 
of other guns booming from more than one quarter 
remind you that this is the king of game-counties, 
and that all the world—the Norfolk world—is out 
shooting. 
Ille terrarum mihi preeter omnes 
Angulus ridet. 
Again the scene is changed. You stand on Itchen 
Down, and while you sniff the bracing air you strain 
your eyes to mark, amid the blue distance, beyond 
the rolling slopes of sheltering woods and open field, 
the spire of Salisbury or the clustering towers of 
William of Wykeham ; to trace the specks of light 
that tell where the silver stream of Test gives back 
the November rays, or to wonder whether, far in the 
south-west, your eye can reach to where the great 
ocean liners are thundering up and down the Solent. 
The tinkle of sheep-bells strikes sharply on the ear, 
