144 FEATHERED GAME 
angel turn a deaf ear to the all-too-energetic ex- 
pressions of the sportsman, who is gazing earn- 
estly into space before him with disgust in every 
lineament and blistering eloquence hurrying 
from his tongue! Two empty cartridge cases 
idly smoking in the mire represent another 
waste of ammunition, and still the would-be 
slayer. stares, unable to believe the evidence of 
his eyes. Yet the reason for his failure is not 
far to seek—our friend, as someone has beauti- 
fully said, has ‘‘shot zig just as the Snipe 
turned zag.’’ 
There is no fear that the sportsman of the 
east will deserve opprobrium because of too 
much snipe-slaughter. That is hardly possible 
under our game conditions. Here are no such 
chances as the spring flights afford our west- 
ern brothers. Somehow Snipe are rare in that 
season, and even in the fall months a dozen 
Snipe to a gun in a day is a good killing in most 
New England marshes. Still, with the ‘‘yel- 
lowlegs’’ and ‘‘grassbirds’’ and on occasion 
the stray teal and black duck, our gunners 
will make a satisfactory bagful. To many the 
uncertainty as to what the charge may be 
unloosed at next lends an added charm to 
