AMERICAN WOODCOCK 113 
eral days, and as the breeze out of the north- 
west drove the broken rearguard of the storm 
seaward I came into the woods. The sun was 
setting and in the western sky the promise of 
better weather was heralded in the red and gold 
glowing on the cloud rims. As the daylight 
faded and the enclosing walls of fir took on an 
added gloom, I saw an occasional Woodcock 
drop into an alder swamp which skirted the 
edge of the woods. At times a pair, but oft- 
ener a lone straggler dashed silently across the 
sky from the wooded hills, and darted down to 
feed in the thicket along the brook, and for a 
short time there was good fun in the edges of 
the cover, taking them as they came in or letting 
my dog flush them and doing my best to ‘‘snap”’ 
them as they came up sharply outlined against 
the sky. It was uncertain shooting and hard 
to tell when the barrels were properly pointed. 
In half an hour I could not see to shoot, but 
went home content—two partridges and five 
cocks. I have tramped all day many a time 
for less, but I dare not say how many birds 
were missed in that short time. There was 
evidently a flight on, and I promised myself 
great fun on the morrow, but again, as all too 
