AMERICAN WOODCOCK 117 
man who comes striding through the tangle of 
alders and brush? Why that baleful light in 
his eye? The clouds of shifting, dancing ‘‘no- 
see-ums’’ flicker before his face—a colony of 
the little pests has gathered on his exposed 
neck,—the great grandfather of all the mos- 
quitoes is at work sinking a well on the end of 
his nose, and a swarm of smaller pirates has 
settled on each brown hand, but all unmindful 
of these he strides on, with tense and mighty 
grip upon the barrels of his gun, for hushed is 
the tinkle of his pointer’s bell, and dimly show- 
ing among the alder stems he sees his dog, one 
foot raised, in statuesque pose, rigid and glar- 
ing into a small boggy opening just ahead. An- 
other step the gunner takes when up with 
merry whistling goes the plump brown bird 
into the sunlight. The gun flies to the sports- 
man’s shoulder; a sharp report breaks the Sab- 
bath-like stillness of the woods and through the 
thin mist of the nitro he sees the lifeless body 
falling to the ground. The small brown gnome 
of the woodland has finished his course. Now 
we know what all this means. This is the ever- 
glorious fifteenth of September,—‘‘Wood- 
cocks are ripe,’’ and for two months the man 
