Part 9

Meanwhile, four rabbits have taken advantage of your soliloquy to make good their escape. You fire a snap-shot at one as he bobs into the fence. "Mark over," and a pheasant whirrs over the top of the wood. You hastily cram a cartridge into your gun, raise it and pull, only to find that you've forgotten to cock the right barrel; you change on to the left trigger, but this has put you "off," the pheasant goes scathless, and is handsomely knocked down by your companion-in-arms. Perhaps this is an argument in favour of a hammerless gun!

On reaching the big covert the aspect of things is changed. The guns are placed at intervals down the rides, and the beaters go to the far end to bring it up towards you. It is always well to let the guns on either side of you, know your whereabouts, both for your own sake and theirs. Only let us hope you won't meet with the treatment that a friend of ours received. He was placed next to a very deaf old gentleman. Aware that he could not make him hear by calling, or (which is much preferable) by whistling, he took out his handkerchief and waved it to attract his attention. The old gentleman caught sight of it, put up his gun and took a steady and deliberate aim at it! You can easily imagine how our friend ducked and bobbed, and threw himself prone on the grass round the corner!

After a pause a distant shot is heard, then another, and soon you hear the tap tap of the beaters, and "Rabbit up," "Mark over," "Hare to the right," may be continually heard, unless, as in some places, silence is enjoined on the beaters. "Mark cock" is, however, everywhere an exception to this rule, and at the magic words, every gun is on the alert! I never understand why a woodcock should be productive of such wild excitement and reckless shooting as it generally is! The bird flits through the trees a little above the height of a man's head, looking as easy to kill as an owl, but it is a gay deceiver, for barrel after barrel may discharge its deadly contents at it, and still that brown bird flits on as before, turning up and down as it goes. Of course (on paper) _you_ are the one to kill it, when you are loaded with congratulations--their very weight testifying how unexpected was the feat. Rather a doubtful compliment! Half the wood being shot, the guns move round to the outside. What has hitherto been done, has been chiefly a means to an end. The pheasants have been driven with the object of getting them into this particular corner. Possibly the wood stands on the slope of a hill; this gives the best shooting, as the birds fly over the valley affording high and difficult shots, especially if coming down-wind. I think there is nothing prettier than to see real high birds well killed. They fall like stones, with heads doubled up--not waving down, wings and legs out-stretched like the arms of a semaphore!

"Thick and fast they come at last, And more, and more, and more."

But do not let this tempt you into firing too quick. Pick your bird and kill it, though I grant you this is not an easy thing to do. Many men seem quite to lose their head at a hot corner. They fire almost at random, though, in the case of a few birds coming, they will scarcely miss a shot.

By this time it is growing dusk. The December afternoon is closing in. There is a mist rising from the river, the air feels damp and chill, and your thoughts turn to a bright fire, a tea-gown, and those delicious two hours before dinner.

To my mind, grouse-shooting is the cream of sport. To begin with, Scotland itself has a charm which no other country possesses. Then it is such nice clean walking! However much you may curtail your skirt, _mud_ will stick to it, but on the heather there is nothing to handicap you--you are almost on a level with MAN!

From the moment you leave the lodge on a shooting morning, your pleasure begins. The dogs and keepers have preceded you. A couple of gillies are waiting with the ponies. You mount, and wend your way over the hill road, ruminating as you go, on the possible bag, and taking in, almost unconsciously, the bewitching feast that nature with such a bountiful hand has spread before you.

On either side a wide expanse of moorland, one mass of bloom, broken here and there by a burnt patch or some grey lichen-covered boulders. The ground gently slopes on the right towards a few scrubby alders or birches, with one or two rowan trees, the fringe of green bracken denoting the little burn which to-day trickles placidly along, but in a spate becomes a roaring torrent of brown water and white foam. Beyond is a wide stretch of purple heather, then a strip of yellow and crimson bents, dotted with the white cotton-flower. The broken, undulating ground, with its little knolls and hollows, tells of nice covert for the grouse when the mid-day sun is high, and the birds are, as an old keeper used to say, "lying deid in the heather."

Further away rise the hills in their stately grandeur, green, and olive, and grey, and purple; how the light changes on them! One behind the other they lie in massive splendour, and, more distant still, the faint blue outline of some giant overtops the rest, with here and there a rugged peak standing out against the sky. And, pervading all, that wonderful, exhilarating, intoxicating air!

Rounding a bend in the road, you come across three or four hill-sheep, standing in the shade of the overhanging bank. Startled, they lift their heads and gaze at you, then rush away, bounding over the stones and heather with an agility very unlike the "woolly waddle" of our fat Leicesters.

Anon, in the distance, you see Donald and the dogs on the look-out for you, the dogs clustered round the keeper, a most picturesque group.

When you reach them and dismount, a brace of setters are uncoupled and boisterously tear around, till peremptorily called to order. You take your guns, etc., the dogs are told to "hold up," and the sport begins.

In a few moments "Rake" pulls up short, and stands like a rock; "Ruby" backs him. You advance slowly, always, when possible, at the side of the dog standing, and pause for your companion to come up. Rake moves forward, a step at a time, his lip twitching and his eyes eager with excitement; another second and the birds get up. Seven of them. (Here let me give the beginner a hint. Take the birds nearest you and furthest from your companion, never shoot across him, don't change your bird, and don't fire too soon.) You re-load and walk up to where they rose, there will probably be a bird left. Up he gets, right under your feet. You let him go a proper distance, then neatly drop him in the heather.

This kind of thing is repeated again and again, varied by an odd "bluehare," or a twisting snipe. The dogs quarter their ground beautifully, it is a pleasure to see them work, for grouse are plentiful, the shooting good, and they are encouraged to do their best. Perhaps there may be a bit of swamp surrounded by rushes in which an occasional duck is to be found. The dogs are taken up, and the guns creep cautiously forward, taking care to keep out of sight till within shot. You then show yourselves simultaneously on the right and left, when the birds will generally spring. Remember to aim _above_ a duck--because it is always rising.

Later on in the season grouse get wilder, and the shooting consequently more amusing. The old cocks grow very wary, but sometimes, coming round the brow of a hill, you light suddenly on a grand old fellow, who, with a "Bak-a-bak-bak," rises right up into the air, turns, and goes off down-wind forty miles an hour. Catch him under the wing just on the turn--a lovely shot. If you miss him he won't give you another chance that day!

By way of variety you are sometimes bidden to assist at a neighbouring "drive" for black game and roe. On one occasion we were asked to join a party for this purpose. We set off with an army of guns and beaters, some of the former decidedly inexperienced ones. It is, of course, essential in roe-driving, that you should, when in position, keep absolutely still. It was known that two bucks with exceptionally fine heads frequented the wood, and our host was anxious to secure them. My husband was placed in a very likely place, and there, in spite of midges and flies galore, he possessed his soul in patience. Suddenly he thought he heard a footstep; the sound was repeated, and, cautiously moving to discover what it might portend, he saw the gun stationed next him calmly patrolling up and down, flicking away the midges with his white handkerchief! My husband didn't get that buck.

After luncheon, our party was reinforced by the butler and the French cook. Both arrived with guns, which they carried "at the trail," at full cock over the roughest ground. The chef was a long, lean, lank, cadaverous man looking as if he wanted one of his own skewers run down him. He was dressed in shiny black clothes and wore _enormous_ slippers. Comfortable enough, no doubt, on the _trottoir_ of his "beloved Paris," but scarcely suitable for the hill! So he seemed to find, for he shortly retired, when we felt considerably happier. Another time, the best wood, the _bonne bouche_, was carefully beaten through while we were discussing a _recherché_ champagne luncheon. Just as we finished, the shouts, cries, and discordant noises which denote the approach of beaters, were heard, and shortly after, one of the keepers came up and informed us that the whole wood had been gone through and that seven roe, to say nothing of a red deer had been seen! Evidently "someone had blundered." I do not myself think there is much sport in roe-driving. To begin with they are such pretty graceful animals, one cannot kill them without remorse. Also it requires very little skill to put a charge of shot into them even at a gallop.

Nor is a grey-hen a difficult bird to kill. Heavy and slow--what Mr Jorrocks calls "a henterpriseless brute"--it flops along through the birch trees (though, when driven, and coming from some distance it acquires much greater speed), looking more like a barn-door fowl than a game bird; but the Sultan of the tribe is quite a different thing. Wild, wary and watchful, he is ever on the _qui vive_. When you do get a shot at him he is travelling by express, and having, most probably, been put up some distance off, he has considerable "way" on. You see his white feathers gleam in the sun, and the curl of his tail against the sky. Shoot well ahead of him. Ah! great is the satisfaction of hearing the dull thud as he falls, and of seeing him bounce up with the force of the contact with mother-earth. Truly, an old black-cock is a grand bird! His glossy blue-black plumage, white under-wings and tail, and red eye make such a pleasing contrast.

I remember once, when grouse-driving towards the end of the day, the beaters brought up a small birch wood which stood near the last row of butts. There were two or three ladies with us. One of them, a most bewitching and lovely young woman, accompanied a gallant soldier into his butt, to mark his prowess. As luck would have it, nine old black-cock flew over that brave colonel's butt, but, strange to say, _four_ went away without a shot, and not one of the nine remained as witnesses of his skill! Now, let me point out, had that said charming girl been _shooting_, she would have been stationed in a butt by herself, and, judging by that soldier's usual performance, at least five of those old black-cock would have bitten the dust that day! And "the moral of that is"--give a graceful girl a gun!

The hill ponies are wonderfully sagacious animals. When they have been once or twice over a road, they will never mistake their way. Once, when staying in Sutherlandshire, two of us started at 10·15 a.m. We rode about four miles, before beginning to shoot, over a very bad bit of country. There were two burns to ford, some curious kind of grips to jump, and several boggy places to circumnavigate.

We shot away from home till about 6·30, then met the ponies and started on our ride home--about nine miles. We neither of us knew the way, beyond having a vague idea as to the direction in which the lodge lay. The first part was easy enough, a narrow sheep-walk guided us, but at length that failed, and there was nothing for it but to trust to the ponies. We could only go at a foot's-pace. The September evening fast closed in, and it came on to drizzle, until, for the last two miles, we could scarcely see two yards before us, and yet those ponies brought us home--over the two fords, avoided the treacherous grips and the boggy places, never putting a foot wrong the whole way! It was long past nine when the lights of the lodge hove in sight. Truly that night's dinner was a "thing of beauty" and bed seemed a "joy for ever!"

Two days later found me keen as mustard to scale the heights of Ben Hope for ptarmigan. It was almost the only game bird, except capercailzie, I had never shot, and I was extremely anxious to seize an opportunity of doing so. Five guns set out. We rode a considerable distance, until the ground became too soft for ponies to travel. Arrived at the foot of the hill I gazed in dismay at its steep, stony height, and felt like the child in the allegory who turns back at its first difficulty! But pluck and ambition prevailed, and I struggled gamely up, though, hot and breathless, I was forced to pause more than once ere we got even halfway. We had agreed that, on no account, were we to fire at anything but ptarmigan. When we had ascended about 1300 feet a covey of grouse got up. One of the sportsmen, nay, the very one who had been foremost in suggesting that ptarmigan only should be our prey, turned round, and feebly let fly both barrels, wounding one wretched bird which disappeared into the depths below, never to be seen again! As the report reverberated through the hill, the whole place above us seemed to be alive with the cackling of ptarmigan, and, in a moment, without any exaggeration at least twenty brace were on the wing at once, making their way round the shoulder, over the Green Corrie to the highest part of Ben Hope. I think the spectre of that grouse must haunt that sportsman yet!

Of course there were a few odd birds left, and, before we gained the top, we had each picked up one or two, though, through another contretemps, I missed my best chance. I had unwillingly, over a very steep and rocky bit of ground, given up my gun to the keeper. The moment after I had done so, two ptarmigan got up to my left, offering a lovely cross shot, and, before I could seize the gun, they fell, a very pretty double shot, to our host on my right. When we reached the summit, we found ourselves enveloped in a thick fog, although down below it was a brilliant hot day; so dense was it, that, notwithstanding we were walking in line, some of us got separated, and it must have been almost an hour before we joined forces again. Altogether it was a hard day's work, but, having attained my object, I was sublimely indifferent to everything else.

Driving is certainly the form of shooting that requires the most skill, whether it be grouse or partridge, and is most fascinating when you can hit your birds! Grouse-driving appears to me the easier of the two; partly because they come straight, and partly because you can see them much further off, also they are rather bigger, though they may, perhaps, come the quicker of the two. Nothing but experience will show you how soon you can fire at a driven grouse coming towards you. Some people get on to their birds much quicker than others. I have heard it said that as soon as you can distinguish the plumage of the bird, he is within shot. Aim a little above him if he is coming towards you--a long way ahead if he is crossing.

If you shoot with two guns, I assume that you have practised "giving and taking" with a loader. Otherwise there will be a fine clashing of barrels and possibly an unintentional explosion. The cap and jacket for driving must be of some neutral tint, any white showing is liable to turn the birds. Of course you must be most careful never to fire a side shot within range of the next butt. A beginner is more apt to do this, from being naturally a slow shot at first.

The same rules hold good for partridge-driving, only there you usually stand behind a high hedge, consequently you cannot see the birds approaching. You hear "Ma-a-rk" in the distance, and the next moment--whish! They are over, scattering at the sight of you to right or left; take one as he comes over you, and you may get another going away from you--or a side shot--provided there is no gun lower down whom you run the risk of peppering.

Walking up partridges in turnips affords the same kind of shooting as grouse over dogs; not bad fun when they are plentiful, but hardish work for petticoats! If a hare gets up and bounds away, the moving turnip-tops will be your only guide to her whereabouts, aim rather low, or the chances are you fire over her back. A curious incident once happened when we were partridge shooting. Two hares were put up, and running from opposite directions up the same row they "collided," and with such violence that one broke its neck and the other was so stunned that it was picked up by a beater! The Irishman might with truth have said--"Man, they jostle one anoither." And this in spite of the Ground Game Act!

You will occasionally come across snipe in turnips. They are horrid little zig-zagging wretches! If you wait till their first gyrations are over, they do, for a second, fly straight (for them), and even a 20-bore can sometimes lay them low.

I once shot a quail. I mistook it for a "cheeper" minus a tail, and gazed placidly at its retreating form, murmuring to myself, "too small," when I was electrified by a yell--"Shoot, shoot!" Being trained to habits of obedience, I promptly did as I was told, and brought the "little flutterer" down. A quail in a turnip field! I should as soon have expected to meet one of the children of Israel.

On a winter afternoon, _faute-de-mieux_, shooting wood-pigeons coming in to roost, is a pastime not to be despised, but it is very cold work. A windy evening is the best; luckily pigeons always fly in against the wind, so you can get on the leeside of the plantation and shoot them coming in, or you can ensconce yourself under the shelter of some fir-boughs near the trees in which they are accustomed to roost. A pigeon takes a lot of killing, he possesses so many feathers; then he has an eye like a hawk, and can turn with incredible speed. If there are several guns in different woods you may easily get 100 in an hour or two, and often many more.

Of the grandest sport of all I grieve to say I can write nothing. I have never had the chance of a shot at a stag. It is not possible to describe a stalk by hearsay only; besides, in my remarks hitherto, I have recorded nothing which has not come within my own actual experience.

I can, however, easily imagine the intense pleasure of being well brought up to within, perhaps, 100 yards of a good stag, the excitement of having the rifle thrust into your hands with a whispered "Tak' time," the cautious raising of the weapon to a rest, the anxious moment as you take your sight and gently press the trigger, and the supreme delight of hearing the "thud" of the bullet as it strikes, and as the smoke clears off, of seeing him stagger a few paces and fall "never to _rise_ again." I forbear to draw the reverse side of the picture.

Of course, in many forests, stalking is quite feasible for ladies, though not within reach of all. I confess I envy those fortunate individuals who have, more than once, compelled some "antlered monarch of the glen" to bow his lofty head and lower his colours at their bidding!

With regard to dress--I believe, for those who can endure the feel, wearing all wool is a great safeguard against rheumatism, chills, and all evils of that ilk. But, on this subject, every woman will of course please herself. I will therefore merely give an outline of my own get-up. A short plain skirt of Harris tweed, with just enough width to allow of striding or jumping, a half tight-fitting jacket to match, with turn-up collar and strap like a cover-coat, pockets big enough to get the hands in and out easily, a flannel shirt and leather belt, or, for smarter occasions, a stiff shirt and waistcoat. Knickerbockers of thin dark tweed, high laced boots with nails, or brown leather gaiters and shoes. If a petticoat is worn, _silk_ is the best material for walking in. I have neither mackintosh nor leather on my dress, I dislike the feel of both. For wet weather, a waterproof cape, with straps over the shoulders so that it can be thrown back, if required, in the act of shooting, is very convenient.

But there is really only one essential in a shooting costume. It MUST be loose enough to give the arms _perfect freedom_ in _every_ direction--without this, it is impossible to shoot well or quickly.

One last hint. Never go on shooting when you are tired. It will only cause you disappointment, and others vexation of spirit, for you will assuredly shoot under everything. Bird after bird will go away wounded, time after time your mentor (or tormentor) will cry "low and behind, low and behind," until, in angry despair, you long to fling the empty cartridge at his head. Take my advice "give it up, and go home!"

That the above notes may not be free from numerous sins of omission and commission, I am well aware. It would be great presumption on my part to suppose that my feeble pen could do what many men have failed to accomplish. But if any hints I have given prove of service to beginners and encourage them to persevere (even though at present, like the old woman's false teeth "they misses as often as they hits"), my pleasant task will not have been in vain.

MILDRED BOYNTON.

A KANGAROO HUNT.

BY MRS JENKINS.

It has been said "An Englishman is never happy unless he is killing something," and nowadays, at any rate, his happiness seems increased if members of the weaker sex share this propensity with him; and so a short account of a kangaroo hunt may not be inappropriate in a book about women's sports.

This is an exclusively Australian pastime, and has peculiar incidents of its own from the start to the finish. We do not see pink coats and heavy hunters, the bay of the hounds does not break on our ear, there are no hedges to leap, nor brooks, followed by a flounder through a ploughed field; we do not come home in a cold drizzle at the end of a delightful day, and sit near the fireside, wondering whether there will be a frost before morning, and whether the mare's legs will last this season. No, our hunting is done under a bright sun and balmy breezes, and, though we miss the prettiness and order which accompany a meet in the "auld countree," still, there is a rugged beauty about our surroundings. The horses are well-bred, though many of them not well groomed; the riders are graceful and plucky, and the _tout ensemble_ makes a fair picture to the lover of horseflesh and sport.

Well, friends have come together, the kangaroo hounds (they are a cross between the deerhound and greyhound,) are let loose and gambol round the horses, letting out short barks of satisfaction as the riders mount. Off we go. The country is hilly and thickly-wooded, logs lie in all directions, but our horses, bred in the district, pick their way, and go at a smart canter in and out of trees, and jump the logs as they come to them.