486 
BIRD-LIFE. 
net. This is an operation which is at the same time a 
pleasure, and yet a painful one; for the captured birds 
must be killed. This office is as disagreeable to the 
bird-catcher as the act of twisting the neck of an innocent 
young pigeon is to the housewife: both she and the 
fowler are as much justified as the hunter in the deadly 
* 
work. The Eedwings are to us what the Quails were to 
the Israelites in the desert: they come to us from the 
far-distant north, on their way to the south of Europe ; 
not one of them ever remains with us for good and all. 
It is true that some of our home birds fall victims along 
with the strangers, which is unfortunate for our woods, 
for many a good songster is roasted in company with its 
northern cousin. Fortunately, however, I know several 
fowlers who let every Song Thrush they capture go free. 
Such people I call bird-catchers of the right sort,—their 
heart is in the right place. 
As soon as the captured game is disposed of, the net is 
again set with all possible speed, and the sport begins 
afresh. Often the fowler has no peace or rest: this state 
of things, however, suits him well, for the season for his 
sport passes only too quickly. If the weather is favour¬ 
able he remains every day till mid-day at his post, after 
which the nets and gear are taken up, and the decoy- 
birds are restored to their cages, and regaled with their 
well-earned meal; then they are all shut up in the hut, 
and he turns his steps homewards with a light heart 
and well-filled game-bag. The afternoon passes rather 
slowly; the evening in the valley is pleasant; for night 
is nearing, and then comes—morning, when off we start 
afresh for the fowler’s hut! 
The foregoing lines are. written with a view to 
describe, in a rough sketch, the pleasures connected with 
