hunted up a local sportsman who was 
familiar with the territory in which we 
were to hunt, and who was also a 
“clinking” good shot himself, as our 
British friends put it. The opening 
day came along at last and the three of 
us hied to the pastures. 
HE first bird of the season rose to 
-the local shooter from a pine top 
half-buried in a tangle of blackberry 
bushes. It was hitting on all six when 
it emerged and had only about five 
yards to go to cover—but it never got 
there. The shooter went through some 
sort of sleight-of-hand performance 
with his weapon and the crack of the 
smokeless came to our ears almost si- 
multaneously with the bursting roar 
of the bird’s wings. The grouse col- 
lapsed in a flurry of feathers, the vic- 
tim of a painlessly perfect snapshot. 
The Colonel was aghast. 
“By George!” he exclaimed with deep 
feeling, “If that is a sample of grouse 
shooting I may as well put up my gun 
and go back to the car and watch the 
lunch. I can’t shoot that fast—can’t 
even think that fast!” 
Throughout the day he followed 
along in a state of perpetual exaspera- 
tion and dismay. Occasionally he fired 
a futile load yards behind a disappear- 
ing bird, but he failed to connect, until 
a grouse rising from the edge of a 
clump: of poplars swung away out 
across the open pasture and gave him 
his opportunity. The Colonel, with an 
I-know-what-to-do-in-this-case air about 
him, took a vicious swing and killed 
his game dead in the air. A less de- 
termined man would have given up and 
retired, but the Colonel was game and 
stuck to his task so well that, before 
the season closed, he was hitting them 
nearly as well as anyone—and won- 
dering how he did it. 
The old advice offered the neophyte 
by the expert grouse shot was simple: 
“Shoot at ’em all, whether you see ’em 
or not, and shoot anyway!” It was 
an effective rule, too, but ethics now 
demand some modification of the slap- 
bang method. The gun that is fired 
at every bird up is bound to wound 
many that are never recovered. It is 
a better rule to take no shot at a 
range so extended as to make a clean 
kill doubtful, nor should one fire hap- 
hazard at every bird in range. The 
man who shoots too much “by ear” is 
sure to become a nervous, erratic shot, 
dangerous to his companions, to his 
dogs, and to the principles of sound 
game conservation. A British shooter 
possessed of these hair-trigger propen- 
sities was invited to join a party of 
his countrymen for a day after rabbits. 
Ferrets were used to push the bunnies 
from their burrows—the practice not 
being regarded as unethical over there 
656 
—and an exciting time was had by all. 
At nightfall the impulsive sportsman 
had managed to kill both the keeper’s 
prize ferrets, and had also managed to 
get portions of three different shot 
charges in as many sections of his own 
anatomy. As a crowning error in a 
day gone wrong he offered the keeper 
ten shillings to secure another pair of 
ferrets! 
By temperament the grouse is a des- 
perate gambler; the woodcock a born 
coquette. Who has ever killed a lusty 
grouse fairly on the wing and has not 
had the instant conviction that it never 
could happen again? On the other 
hand, who has not missed a tumbling, 
tantalizing woodcock and not felt earn- 
estly that it was the easiest shot in 
the world and sure to be centered the 
next time up? 
t 
¢ 
ee 
: 
| 

A point at the covert’s edge. 
The Colonel had never shot wood- 
cock; had never, in fact, seen the 
strange little bird outside a glass case 
until one rose some ten yards in front 
of him as we were following a wood- 
land path where it ran through a 
thicket of birches. The bird looked as 
big as a brown derby hat and certainly 
seemed no harder to hit as, with its 
peculiar fluttering, side-slipping flight 
it turned back directly over the Col- 
onel’s head and flurruped thoughtfully 
away. My wild yell of, “Woodcock!” 
broke in upon my companion’s fascina- 
tion and he straightway began firing 
at the most tantalizing target that is 
ever proffered to a gunner. 
He fired and pumped, and fired 
and pumped, and fired and pumped 
again, working his little twenty- 
bore repeater as fast as a streak, but 
at the third shot the little brown bird 
turned thoughtfully aside and in un- 
hurried dignity disappeared over the 
birch tops, unhurt. The Colonel 
couldn’t believe it. It was incredible 
that a bird which flew like a rag on the 
end of a stick should flop and flutter 
around his head and offer three perfect 
shots and still escape unscathed. But 
it was so, and the Colonel was finally 
forced to admit it. He had learned 
something about woodcock, though, or 
thought that he had. 
“Woodcock,” he asserted, “if I may 
regard that bird as an average speci- 
men, are easy. I can’t hit grouse and 
I know it, but I can hit those timber- 
doodles.” 
But, though that month of October 
presented him with a good many oppor- 
tunities to prove his optimistic declara- 
tion he never did hit a woodcock, nor 
did he ever depart from the unshaken 
conviction that he would surely plaster 
the next one! He was a victim of the 
woodcock complex as I recognize it in 
myself and detect it in others. A 
woodcock looks a perfect cinch — but 
isn’t. His usual flight, which is varied 
sometimes by cold weather or an empty 
stomach, is a provoking, deceitful effort 
which will convince one that the bird 
is the most guileless creature alive. In 
fact, a woodcock on the wing—excep- 
tions as noted above—will remind you 
strongly of an absent-minded college 
professor ambling homeward with a 
bundle of books under his arm. On 
occasion, though, when any one of many 
influences induces the bird to feel that 
it is better to drop his guise of amiable 
insouciance, the woodcock can flit 
through the birches in an arrowy flight 
somewhat like that of a pigeon. But 
when, twittering and fluttering, he 
rises over the alders in his own in- 
imitable manner it looks as easy to ac- 
complish his demolition as to hit a 
plum pudding with a baseball bat. He 
has fooled more fine shots than any 
other game bird. If all the open mouths 
of astonishment which he has left be- 
hind him were joined together one 
would have a cavity large enough for 
a good-sized trout pond. 
Never has a woodcock risen before 
me that I didn’t feel the instant and 
pleasing certainty that I could hit him. 
But my game record book shows me 
a pessimistic fifty per ‘cent of kills. 
Grouse, on the contrary, seem unhit- 
able—one feels the hopelessness of try- 
ing to do anything with a mere streaky 
blur of feathers and a shot load that 
only travels a mere thousand feet a 
second. Frank Forester, who lived, 
shot, and appreciated his opportunities 
in the days when every cover swarmed 
with feathered game, was never a suc- 
cessful grouse shot, though he was a 
(Continued on page 687) 

