WILSON S SNIPE 143 
of life there is little room for doubt that you 
will, for at any season the Snipe is tender and 
of good flavor. 
And so the sportsman tramps cheerily across 
his mucky pleasure-ground, his eyes alight with 
a soul-satisfying content as his dog careers 
about in graceful quartering, head high and 
tail a-switching. No fear that he will pass a 
single twister—not he! Oho! Another one! 
Mark that sudden swerve up-wind—those quiv- 
ering nostrils as he ‘‘snuffs the tainted gale.’’ 
And now, like the work of some grand sculp- 
tor, he stands motionless in the open sunlight, 
beauty and life in every line and curve, his 
muscles tense and rigid, awaiting his master’s 
coming. No less eager than his dog, and hast- 
ening as fast as hip boots and sucking mire will 
allow, the sportsman moves up. He gets him- 
self into position to shoot quickly, tests the 
safety catch to be sure his weapon is ready, and 
then chirrups to his dog to move in. Whiz-z-z! 
Something streaks it from the grass and mire 
just ahead of the dog—‘‘Scaipe !—Scaipe!’’— 
a rasping note emitted from a small form fast 
turning out corkscrews of ever-growing dis- 
tance. Bang! Bang! May the recording 
