228 
FRANK FORESTER’S FIELD SPORTS. 
the birds. On going out the next morning, we drew the bogs 
blank, and it became evident that they had roosted in the place, 
wherever it was, to which they had flown, on being disturbed. 
We set off, therefore, again in that direction, hoping to find 
them on their feeding ground, but spent the greater part of the 
morning trying for them in vain. 
We then took our dogs in a different direction; and after a 
day’s sport—whether good, bad, or indifferent, I do not now 
remember—again found our bevy in the same bogs,—killed a 
brace of them only, in consequence of their rising wild, and the 
evening having grown dark, and again marked them over the 
same wood corner—the birds literally flying over the top of 
the very same crimson maple which they had crossed the pre¬ 
vious evening. 
It was too late to look farther after them that night, and i 
knew that they would not be in the bogs on the following morn¬ 
ing,—we took, therefore, a different beat, and heard no more of 
my bevy. 
On the third day, however, being piqued by the escape of 
these birds, I determined to spare no pains to find their hiding- 
places. We proceeded accordingly to the bogs, the first thing 
in the morning, found them before they had quitted their roost, 
and drove them for the third time over the top of the same red 
maple. 
These birds, be it observed, were on my old companion’s 
own farm, every inch of which we knew thoroughly, and on 
which there was not a brake, or tuff of rushes, likely to harbor 
a single bird, much less a bevy, with which we were not ac¬ 
quainted. 
We spent four hours beating for these birds again in vain, 
and left the ground in disgust and despair. 
In returning home, however, that night, we recrossed the 
same fields; and expecting nothing less than to find game, I 
was walking down the side of a snake-fence, along which grew 
a few old apple-trees, with my dogs pretty well fagged at my 
heel, and my gun across my shoulder. Suddenly out of the 
