xxxiv MEMOIE OF THE AUTHOR 



keeper " an old hare got up in front of 'un, and he 

 wouldn't shoot, and then another got up, and he 

 wouldn't shoot that neither, so at last I shouted 

 ' Shoot 'un. Your Holiness, shoot,' and shoot 'un he 

 did! " 



On another occasion, he was shooting at a place 

 where the host was not a good shot, and it was Mr. 

 Foster-Melliar's fortune to be the gun next to his 

 host at one particular stand. Mr. Foster-Melliar, of 

 course, was careful not to shoot at any birds that 

 might have been looked on as belonging to his host's 

 stand, with the result that not much damage was 

 being done. In the inidst of it all the head keeper 

 crawled round to Mr. Foster-Melliar and whispered 

 in his ear, " Don't you mind nothing about nobody's 

 birds, sir" — which, as Mr. Foster-Melliar said after- 

 wards, was a remark that contained about as many 

 negatives as a sentence of eight words could be 

 expected to carry comfortably. 



Mr. Foster-Melliar did not hunt, and his attitude 

 towards foxes was — mildly disapproving, shall we 

 say ? But in case any rosegrowers are also fox- 

 hunters, here is a story that he used to tell some- 

 times. In the west country, where all the farmers 

 are or used to be great sportsmen, there was a certain 

 gamekeeper who did not attempt to conceal his 

 aversion to foxes. A farmer was riding to the meet 

 on a very wet and stormy morning, and met the 

 keeper. " Morning," said the farmer. "Morning," 

 said the keeper cheerfully, adding, "foxes '11 most 

 likely be underground this sort of weather." 

 " Mebbe," answered the farmer, " but — who put 'em 

 theere ? " 



To enter into his toils and triumphs as a rose- 



