Part 17

A good story in proof of a retriever's reasoning powers is told by an old-time sportsman. He was shooting beside a frozen stream, and winged a mallard, which fell in mid-stream. His dog crashed on to the ice, broke through it, and fought her way to the middle, where the ice only skimmed the water. She swam round for a moment, then broke her way to the opposite bank, paused to give a knowing look at the thin ice, and went down stream at full speed for about eighty yards. Running down the bank, she broke a hole in the ice with her fore-paws, then crouched back, watching the hole. In a few moments she made a spring and plunged in, reappearing in mid-stream with the mallard in her mouth. There was no doubt, at least in her master's mind, that she had broken the hole for the purpose of catching the bird when he came up to breathe.

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Born Retrieving

A keeper owned two retriever puppies who were given a curious start in life. Their mother was shut up at home, while her master went to shoot some rooks. She was the proud mother of five new-born puppies, but her litter was not complete. A few rooks had been shot, and the keeper was waiting for others to appear, when up ran the retriever carrying a rook in her mouth; somehow she had managed to get out, and had followed to see the sport. She was sent back to her puppies, and directly she reached home two new puppies were born. They were born, as one might say, retrieving.

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Some Sporting Types

The most common type of gunner is the man who kills frequently, but is not a good shot because he does not know how to take his birds. He would double his bag if he would put every shot a foot farther forward--that golden foot forward--if he would not fire when in the act of turning (which must depress the gun's muzzle), and if he would remember that driven birds on seeing a man rise immediately and instinctively, even at right angles to their line of flight. The keeper detests the man who continually sends him to pick up game which has never fallen. For these knowing gentlemen, he is a wise keeper who carries a special bird or two in his pocket, against the time when they say, in their haughty way, "Aw, my man, kindly pick up my bird that fell tha-ar!"

The luckiest shot we ever met was a colonel who, one windy day, happened to be stationed by himself on a road lined by telegraph-wires. All the birds came his way, and with ten shots he killed one. Startled by his volleys, a bunch of passing birds blundered into the telegraph-wires which, more deadly than the gun, claimed nine victims. The colonel was a study in modesty when he remarked a little later that in ten shots he had been lucky enough to bag five brace.

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Victims of Wire

Unfortunately the best stands for partridge-driving are often behind hedges flanked by telegraph-wires. This is specially unfortunate when the birds see the guns just before they pass beneath the wires. Up they go, and a whole covey may be cut to pieces at the moment when fingers were pulling triggers. Though a brace of birds fall dead at the sportman's feet, evidently neatly taken in front, to the sportsman this is not the same as a brace to his gun: he would prefer, indeed, a good old-fashioned miss.

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Stoat or Weasel?

Many country people who ought to know better are hazy on the distinction between stoats and weasels. We can forgive the Cockney uncertainty of this sort, as we forgive him for calling rooks, and even starlings, crows. The countryman may well confuse crows and rooks; his safest plan when in doubt about a big black bird is to name him rook, for in most parts crows are now scarce to the point of extermination. But those who live in the country have as little excuse for speaking of stoats, when they should speak of weasels, as for mixing rabbits with hares. It is easier to tell a weasel from a stoat than a rabbit from a hare, if one is fairly close and has a clear view. A weasel is quite a third of the size of a stoat and a third of the weight: the males of both weasels and stoats are about twice the size of the females. But the outstanding distinction between stoat and weasel is the long, black-tufted tail of the stoat, and the short, unassuming tail of the weasel--no more conspicuous than a mole's tail.

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"The Horrid Badger"

We have come across many curious cases of ignorance on these points. A countryman who had dwelt with stoats and weasels all his life, and had killed hundreds by trap and gun, yet had no idea of the true difference. Whichever he saw, or killed and hung up by a twisted twig, he determined to be stoat or weasel according to its size. Then we remember a lady who kept chickens, and suffered the loss of half a brood. She called in a passing keeper to settle the question of the thief. After waiting a while the keeper shot a weasel in the act of returning for another chicken. The lady of the chickens was overjoyed at this retribution, and presented the keeper with half a crown. Her words in making the presentation have been treasured by the keeper: "This," said she, "is for shooting the horrid badger."

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Chalk-Pit Haunts

To the old chalk-pit, where the sun is trapped and the winds are kept at bay, come all kinds of creatures for warmth and sanctuary. However deserted the fields of winter seem to be--however silent and sullen--signs of life are never wanting in the chalk-pits; they are as inns to wayfarers who search the country for a living and lodging. Creep silently, against the wind, to the chalk-pit's edge, and in summer or winter, sunshine or shower, on a still day or a windy, you will catch a glimpse of some wild creature, a visitor, or one of those who have made their home in the pit for the sake of sustenance or shelter.

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When the Fox sleeps

The sparrow-hawk may be caught napping on some favourite perch, as on a stunted tree, in a sheltered nook. The partridge covey may be seen for a moment, as the birds revel in the powdery soil, roofed by an overhanging ledge--seeing you, they go whizzing off amid a little cloud of dust. In the dead herbage a wily old cock pheasant crouches, who long since denied himself the luxuries and the dangers of social life in the big woodlands: he crouches as he sees you, but not so quickly that you may not note the sinking of his glossy neck. Two or three rabbits scuttle off to the doors of their burrows. Through the bushes a hare steals away. No chalk-pit is complete without a rabbit-burrow, a blackbird, and a robin. If hounds came more often to the chalk-pits they would save themselves many a blank hour. There is no peace for the fox in the coverts, but the old chalk-pit is as quiet as a church.

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When Ferret meets Fox

An exciting moment for rabbiters comes if a fox bolts from a burrow when only a rabbit is expected--so exciting a moment that if there is a man with a gun the fox is lucky to escape a shot--especially should he have in his mouth the quivering body of a favourite ferret. And the ferret is lucky to come alive from a hole if he meets the fox in the only passage by which he can leave the burrow. But ferrets often escape if the burrow is not a proper fox-earth, but has been used only as a temporary shelter. Even if caught in the fox's jaws there may be hope for the ferret; we heard of one who was none the worse for a long ride between a fox's teeth. Like dogs and cats, foxes can be soft-mouthed if they will. We have known a fox to deal so tenderly with a captured rabbit that it ran about after the long jaws had released their hold; and for some time it amused its captor as a mouse amuses a cat. A fox, when he wishes, can carry an egg without breaking the shell.

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February Rabbits

Towards the end of January rabbits begin to fall off in condition. As food becomes less nourishing their reserve supplies of fat gradually dwindle. But with the end of the game season the price on their heads begins to rise: and the keeper who has hard work to meet the expenses of a shoot looks to the rabbit-catch of February to swell the credit side of his accounts. Most people know that a hen pheasant is more tender and delicate to eat than a cock, though cock and hen may be of the same age. So with rabbits--those who sell rabbits might well charge a penny or two more for the does than for bucks. The countryman knows that the tenderest rabbits are those that he may skin with the least difficulty.

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The Moucher's Excuse

While the gamekeeper is seldom at fault in the matter of a ready excuse, he meets many people who are his superior in carrying ever-ready lies on their lips. From poachers and mouchers, as the haunters of hedge-sides are called, he might learn the lesson that no excuse is better than a fine excuse that is shallow. One Sunday morning a keeper, dressed in his go-to-meeting clothes--a useful disguise--came sauntering silently down a road bounded by unkempt hawthorn hedges. His trained ear caught the sound of a dog careering past him on the field-side of the road: then he saw the dog's master, who, on seeing him, set up a sudden and energetic whistling. Of this the dog took no notice; with his nose well down, he rushed on to a rabbit-burrow and began digging furiously. "These hedges are full of rats," remarked the dog's master. "My dog killed five just now." Asked what had happened to their bodies, Mr. Moucher replied calmly, "He swallowed 'em whole." On the keeper suggesting that there was not much chance of finding a rat in the rabbit's burrow, the moucher agreed, called off his dog, and went his way. In the hedges there was no sign of a rat, but a few rabbits managed to eke out an existence, though heavily persecuted by gentlemen of the road.

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When Hounds come

The opening of the hunting season proper brings a new anxiety to the keeper. While it opens in early November, no date is recognised. The keeper would like to see one fixed, and he would make it after his coverts had been shot at least once. Many shooting men would also like to see the idea established that hounds should not come to their woods until after the first shoots, especially where there are many hares. Often a landowner will refuse a master's request for permission to come his way until he has done with his coverts. The keeper does not so much object to the hounds merely passing through when in full cry, for then the hounds run in a compact body, and pay no attention to game. They only disturb a line about ten yards wide right through the woods. What disturbs every game-bird and hare in the place is drawing a covert, particularly when scent is bad and foxes are in evidence, but not to be forced away. Unhappy the keeper who must throw open his coverts at all seasons while other neighbouring coverts are closed. The prohibition of one wood often leads to the closing of many more; and hunt officials are well advised to break down, by every power of persuasion, all restrictions which favour one or two keepers at the expense of brother keepers. At any rate, we think it would be an excellent idea that the keeper whose coverts are always open to hounds should have double the reward paid for a find to the keeper whose coverts are open only after Christmas.

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When Hounds are gone

Those who shoot in the wake of hounds are no sportsmen. To state a case in illustration of this: A sportsman has the shooting of a wood bounded on one side by another's fields. In days gone by he was glad to keep a fox for hounds, and gladly he would throw open his wood to the hunt, in a reasonable way. In the cause of sport, he was content that his pheasants and hares should be driven out of his wood into his neighbour's fields and hedgerows. But when he found that his neighbour was the sort of man to shoot in the wake of hounds, so that the evicted creatures were given no fair chance to return to their home-wood, but instead were shot in the afternoon following a morning visit of hounds--he felt compelled to close his wood to the hunt, with the natural sequence that he was soon compelled to bar the covert to foxes also. No shooting days in the wake of hounds should be a golden rule for all neighbourly neighbours.

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Poachers' Weapons

Of poachers there are many types; and the worst are the organised bands that hail chiefly from colliery and manufacturing districts. These men are murderous ruffians, and the keeper who interferes with them carries his life in his hand. Wives look anxiously indeed for their husbands' return when such a band is about. The gangs chiefly practise night shooting, and pheasants are their object. But they are as ready to fire at a keeper as at pheasants. We were shown a single-barrelled muzzle-loading gun which a keeper had taken from such a poacher, who had shot a roosting pheasant under his very eyes. After the shot, the keeper went up to the man, who pointed the gun straight at his head, threatening to fire if he advanced another yard. But the keeper knew his man--and his gun. He knew there had been no time for the ruffian to reload. He knocked up the barrel, and caught his man, who in due time was sentenced to nine months' imprisonment. Had his gun been double-barrelled, it would have been another story, and a tragic one. A favourite weapon, and a deadly, in these poachers' hands is a heavy stone slung in a stocking.

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Moles' Skins for Furs

For moles' skins the keeper has no sentiment. He will not part with his skins of rare birds--but will willingly barter the prospect of wearing a moles' skin waistcoat for the price of an ounce of shag a skin. By catching moles he pleases the farmers, who know no more than he himself about any good work that moles do: he frees his rides from unsightly heaps and raised tunnellings; and now and then his mole-traps catch a weasel. Many keepers make a fair sum of money each year by selling moles' skins; furriers will as readily give twopence for a skin as others threepence or sixpence. The skins, cut close round the head, are drawn from the moles' bodies as a man draws stockings from his legs; they are pegged out, fur downwards, on a board, to be dried and powdered with alum, then are stuffed with meadow hay, and packed by scores or hundreds. Perhaps no fur is quite so soft and beautiful as the mole's; and the keeper is always well pleased to note how well the pelts of his enemies become women-folk's faces.

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Covert-shooting Problems

To shoot while there are still many leaves on the underwood and trees, and while there is a full muster of pheasants, or to wait until there are fewer leaves and fewer pheasants--that often is the question. For there are many coverts in which pheasants will not stay after the fall of the leaf. Then the shooting man who does not own the coverts to which his birds will betake themselves must make the best of things, and be content to bring down more leaves than pheasants, and often nothing but leaves. What with the showering of leaves and the crashing of shot-pruned boughs and dead wood, he may imagine that a pheasant must be an extra heavy bird--only to find that not a feather has been touched. To shoot pheasants among a crowd of leafy oaks is no simple matter--it is more difficult than to shoot a rocketer in the open valley. One thing may be said for this aggravating pastime; it teaches the slow shooter to be quick.

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"Cocks only"--to compromise

There are good reasons for shooting coverts for the first time before the end of November, apart from the fear of a leakage of pheasants. A sack of corn a day will quickly swell a bill to uncomfortable proportions. Unshot coverts also mean that the whole time of keepers and watchers is taken up, with a string of awkward consequences. Thus, little can be done to thin the rabbits, for fear of disturbing the other game in the coverts. Each night some of the hares go out, never to return. Hunting must be curtailed in self-defence. Then again, neighbours may be shooting, and it is very certain that what goes into your neighbour's bag cannot go into yours. The best compromise between shooting in woods still leafy and waiting for the sporting Christmas pheasant to soar far above the tops of the bare trees, is to shoot "cocks only" at the first covert shoots. This may be a perplexing plan to those not accustomed to it--either they include a good many hens, or they let off a good many cocks which they mistake for hens. It is a plan to make the nervous man shoot his worst. And the keeper, as a rule, will not be found to favour it, unless the guns are discriminating and good, and appreciate sport more than bag. But sooner or later the day of "cocks only" must come--why should it not come at the beginning and be done with?

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What a Cat may kill

A strange confession was made by a cat-lover concerning the cat of her fireside. The confession was made publicly; in fact, in the columns of an obscure local paper. It was to the effect that the cat had brought in to her kittens, in one week, twenty-six field-mice, nineteen rabbits, ten moles, seven young birds, and two squirrels--all of which passed through her mistress's hands; there may have been others not taken account of. It never seemed to enter the head of the cat's mistress that any hurt was being done to other people's interests by this poaching of rabbits, nor that any neighbouring gamekeeper might read her words. It would be unfair to argue that all cats, with or without kittens, are as bad as this one; we have heard of cats a great deal worse. Naturally a mother cat forages far and wide for food; but she hunts chiefly for small things, and knows that mice and birds are more suitable for her weaning kittens than sitting partridges and pheasants. It is that arch old villain, Sir Thomas, who commits the crimes for which mother cats are blamed. But the keeper has no hesitation in bringing home to all cats a reparation, sudden and effective, for Sir Thomas's sins.

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A Cockney Story

A gamekeeper friend told us, with infinite delight, this quaint little story. If we are to believe him, he was sitting one fine September day behind the hedge of a cornfield, thinking about the coveys hidden in the corn, when he became aware that a lover and his lass were sitting on the road side of the hedge, directly behind him. They were Cockneys, and this was the first of their days of country holiday-making. Presently the lover speaks. "Emma," says he, "just look at this pretty fly wot's settled on me 'and." "Lor'!" says Emma, "ain't he a daisy?" A pause follows; the lovers are silently contemplating the beauties of the fly. Emma suggests he is out for an airing in his racing colours--yellow and black. Then the lover calls out in a voice of mingled amusement and pain. "Crikey!" he cries, "ain't 'is feet 'ot?"

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Hares in Small Holdings

The hare that haunts a small holding has a slender chance of dying a natural death in ripe old age. But we have a little story of how a small-holder was converted from hare-shooting. He was a man who rented a meadow on the outskirts of a large village; and it chanced that hares were much attracted to this pleasant spot. The gamekeeper of the shooting tenant was deeply troubled by the drain on his stock of hares caused by the small-holder; but there was little he could do to stop the slaughter that went on at all times and seasons, and by all manner of means. He had the good sense to keep on friendly terms with the troublesome sportsman, and at last he thought that some improvement might be brought about by arranging a laugh at his expense. He stuffed a hare, and one night set up the skin in the meadow, at a fair range from a gap in the hedge. Early next morning the news reached the small-holder that there was a hare in his field. Off he started with gun and dog; saw from the gap that the hare was sitting up, "jest about a pretty little shot," took steady aim, and fired both barrels to make sure of a kill. How his dog retrieved a hare-skin stuffed with hay was a story that soon became public property in the village and the neighbourhood, and from that day forward there has been no safer place for a hare than this man's meadow.

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The Sins of the Father

The gamekeeper often picks up hints about poachers in unexpected ways. His wife, as a rule, takes no great interest in the affairs of game; yet every now and again she is able to tell her husband some news that may be at once bad and good. It happened that the wife of a highly respected gardener fell ill, and one afternoon the keeper's wife kindly offered to take charge of her children. The eldest child, a boy of about six, seemed to have little to say for himself; but, as the party was walking silently along a lane, he suddenly said in a voice that promised well to be a bass some day: "Our muver, she do make we some good dinners." "Indeed," said the keeper's wife, "and what does she give you for dinner?" The boy answered eagerly and proudly: "Bunny rabbits, m'm." "Indeed," said the keeper's wife again, "and where does mother get the bunny rabbits?" "Please, m'm, faither buys 'em off a man as brings 'em." "Oh! in-_deed_!" said the keeper's wife, and it was not long before one more receiver of stolen rabbits was brought to justice.

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The Pheasants' Roosting-Trees

When the oaks shed their leaves night has a new danger for the roosting pheasants. They become easy targets for the gun of the night shooter. While the leaves remain the pheasants are well screened--and they often owe their lives to their habit of roosting in oaks, where the leaves give shelter long after beeches are bare. On a night of bright moonshine beeches scarcely provide any cover for the bulky form of a roosting pheasant. No doubt it is rather for comfort than through cunning that pheasants choose a roosting-place in oaks. They show no cunning in choosing their oak-tree, for they will roost night after night on some low branch overhanging a road. They seem naturally to prefer oaks to beeches for a lodging. Unlike most trees, oaks throw out their branches horizontally, but beeches' branches tend to rise vertically. Their bark is smooth and cold, but oak bark is rough, easily gripped, and warm.

When oaks have lost all their leaves the beeches provide the better cover; for their vertical lines form some sort of screen. Even with a full moon it is not always easy to see sleeping pheasants which go to roost in the lower branches. It may be more difficult to see a roosting pheasant than to shoot it--though the hardest shot a pheasant can give is when it flies by night. Fir-trees in a pheasant covert have a special value to the roosting birds. While unsuitable as sleeping-places, for the birds cannot fly up through the thick twiggy branches, nor can they see where they are going, the firs make the more suitable roosting-trees warm and cosy, and against their dark background it is difficult to see the pheasants, and to shoot them. The poacher has no liking for sporting shots.

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The Fox in the Storm