2 TEN YEARS OF GAME-KEEPING 
night had horribly exciting dreams. One autumn 
day my sister, brother, and I hit on the idea of run- 
ning home, shrieking that we had been attacked by | 
poachers, and my brother’s flaxen locks were freely 
anointed with crushed blackberries to lend colour 
to our story. On another occasion we three spied 
a mistle-thrush’s nest in an oak in a plantation. 
I can still recall that sunny spot, an ideal one for 
a pheasant’s nest. Unfortunately, just as my brother 
had climbed nearly to the nest the keeper spied 
us. And how we ran! We did a record half-mile 
home, where we hid among the faggots in the wood- 
shed. And it was a long time before we ventured 
forth, though we knew that a dinner was awaiting 
us that included a jam roly-poly. We imagined 
that at least we should be cast indefinitely into 
prison. That terrible keeper is living still, and 
whenever I see him we have a laugh over those 
old adventurous days. 
I grew up in an atmosphere of dogs, traps, and 
guns. My father had a small shoot, which pro- 
duced chiefly partridges, hares, and a few pheasants 
and rabbits ; and on this shoot I spent most of my 
time that was not taken up with things more impor- 
tant than sport. At every opportunity I sought the 
society of the keepers in the neighbourhood of my 
home, accompanied them on their rounds, and spent 
many happy days with them, ferreting, in the winter 
holidays. The art of trapping simply fascinated me. 
