SHOOTING THE PHEASAN7 



Calcutta and the glitter of Cairo, the veneer of 

 Boston and the natural graces of Tahiti, the sweat of 

 the diggers in Ballarat or of the Kaffirs in the South 

 African Rand ; who have, on our return journey, 

 once more sipped our coffee and savoured our un- 

 earned luxuries under the shadow of the Coliseum, 

 or over the reflected glories of the Grand Canal ; 

 who have clapped our hands in applause where the 

 electric gleams illumine the snows of Petersburg, or 

 the gas-glare tinges with midnight gold the verdure 

 and bloom of the Champs-Elysees' chestnuts — what 

 do we come back to ? 



We have seen the setting sun gild the fretted 

 marble of the Taj Mahal, or the simple pillars of the 

 Parthenon ; light with rose beams the rugged snowy 

 outline of the Rockies, or flash with prismatic glory 

 from the great chandeliers of the Salle des Glaces ; 

 we have travelled and seen the world from China to 

 Peru, and yet — where and how do we wish to live ? 

 In an English country home ! 



As the pheasant picks his dainty, graceful way 

 across the well-kept garden, we count him not the 

 least picturesque and appropriate incident in the lovely 

 scene ; as we should glance at the jewel pattern in the 

 gallery of Hatfield, the tapestries on the walls of 

 Blenheim, the cunningly carved friezes of Chatsworth. 



