THE AMERICAN WOODCOOK. 199 
ing above twenty paces from his master, bustling round 
every stump, prying into every fern-bush, worming his 
long, stout body, propped on its short, bony legs, into 
the densest and most matted cover, no cock can escape 
him. 
See! one of them has struck a trail; how he flourishes 
his stump of a tail. Now he snuffs the tainted ground ; 
what a rapture fills his dark, expressive eye. Now he is 
certain ; he pauses for a moment, looks back to see if 
his master is at hand; “ Yaff! yaff!” the brakes ring 
with his merry clamor, his comrade rushes to his aid 
like lightning, yet pauses ever, obedient to the whistle, 
nor presses the game too rashly, so that it rise out of 
distance. Up steps the master, with his thumb upon the 
dexter hammer, and his fore-finger on the trigger-guard. ° 
Now they are close upon the quarry; “yaff! yaff! 
yaft!” Flip flap! up springs the cock, with a shrill 
whistle, on a soaring wing. Flip flap! again—there are 
a couple. Deliberately prompt, up goes the fatal tube— 
even as the butt presses the shoulder, trigger is drawn 
after trigger. Bang! bang! the eye of faith and the 
finger of instinct have.done their work, duly, truly. 
The thud of one bird, as he strikes the moist soil, tells 
that he has fallen ; the long stream of feathers floating 
in the still air through yonder open glade, announces 
the fate of the second ; and, before the butt of the gun, 
dropped to load, has touched the ground, without a word 
‘or question, down charged at the report, the busy little 
