Part 3

_Sportsman_ (_to his wife, who is rather a wild shot._) "By Jove! Nelly, you nearly got us again, that time! If you are not more careful, I'll go home!"

_Old Keeper_ (_sotto voce_). "It's all right, squire. Her bag is full of nothing but _blank_ 'uns!"]

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_Gentleman._ "That looks a well-bred dog."

_Owner._ "I should think he was well-bred. Why, he won't have a bit er dinner till he's got his collar on!"

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SS. PATRICK AND PARTRIDGE

"Now at the birds, me boy, let dhrive!" Says Mike, exhorting Dan. "That's how we'll keep the game alive, By killing all we can!"

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A ZOOLOGICAL CONUNDRUM.--_Intending Tenant_ (_to_ Lord Battusnatch's _Head Keeper_). And how about the birds? Are they plentiful, Gaskins?

_Gaskins._ Well, sir, if the foxes of our two neighbours was able to lay pheasants' eggs, I should say there'd be no better shooting south o' the Trent.

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SAD FATALITY TO ONE OF A SHOOTING PARTY ON THE MOORS.--On returning home, after a most successful day's sport, just as he entered the garden he was taken from life by a snap-shot.

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AT A DOG-SHOW.--_First Fancier._ That's a well-bred terrier of yours, Bill.

_Second Fancier._ And so he ought to be. Didn't the Princess of Wales own his great grand-aunt!

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THE ANATOMY OF SHOOTING

MEN WE NEVER MEET

1. The man who makes no excuses for shooting badly; such as--1. The light was in his eyes; 2. He was bilious; 3. There was something wrong with his cartridges; 4. Too many cigars the night before; 5. Some particular eatable or drinkable taken the night before; 6. Or that morning; 7. He was afraid of hitting that beater; 8. We were walking too fast; 9. He hadn't got his eye in; 10. Or his eye was out; 11. He didn't think it was his bird; 12. It was too far off; 13. He always thought there was something the matter with _that_ gun.

2. The man whose dog hasn't a good nose.

3. The man who can't "shoot a bit sometimes."

4. The man who hasn't some particular theory as to--1. The very best gun; 2. Cartridges; 3. Charges of powder and shot; 4. Best tipple to shoot on; 5. Best sort of boots; 6. Gaiters; 7. And equipment generally.

5. The man who doesn't change the said theory every season.

6. The man who hasn't sometimes said he couldn't shoot after lunch.

7. Or that he could shoot better after lunch.

8. The man who on your remarking that your friend George Lake is a good shot, doesn't answer that you should see Billy Mountain (or someone else) and then you would know what shooting really was.

9. The man who hasn't a friend who "can't hit a haystack."

10. The friend who owns it.

11. The man who doesn't like to be considered a good shot.

12. The man who, being a bad shot, doesn't comfort himself by thinking he knows a worse.

13. The man who hasn't made a longer shot than anyone in the company.

14. The man who, having made it, doesn't tell the story.

15. And who, having told the story, doesn't tell it more than once.

Finally, _Mr. Punch_ is never likely to meet the man who, having read the above, will not own that it is strictly true of those who pursue the pleasant pastime of shooting when, as the eminent Burton puts it, "they have leisure from public cares and business."

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SONG OF "THE MISSING SPORTSMAN"

How happy could I be on heather, A-shooting at grouse all the day, If only the birds in high feather Would not, when I shoot, fly away!

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"ONCE HIT TWICE SHY."--_Guest_ (_taking keeper aside_). "Look here, Smithers"--(_gives half-a-sov._)--"Put me out o' gunshot of the Squire. He does shoot so precious wild, and my nerve isn't what it used to be!"

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LE SPORT

["The French sportswoman is not ardent, but just now _Le Sport_ is the thing."--_Daily Paper._]

Ze leetle bairds zat fly ze air I vish zem not ze 'arms-- Zat is not vy ze gun I bear So _bravement_ in mine arms; 'Tis not zat I vould kill--_Ah! non!_ It is zat I adore Ze noble _institution_ Ve call in France _Le Sport_.

And zen ze costume! Ah! ze 'at! Ze gaitares! Vot more sweet For ze young female-chaser zat Do 'ave ze leetle feet? Ze gun?--I fear 'im much, and oh! 'E makes my shouldare sore, But yet I do 'im bear to show 'Ow much I love _Le Sport_.

Ze leetle partridge 'e may lay 'Is pretty leetle eggs, Ze leetle pheasant 'op away Upon 'is leetle legs, Ze leetle 'are zat run _si vite_ I do not vish 'is gore-- But vile mine ankles zey are neat I'll cry, "_Ah! Vive le Sport!_"

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LOVE AMONG THE PARTRIDGES

September's first, the day was fair, We sought the pleasant stubble, The birds were rising everywhere, The old dog gave no trouble. And still my friend missed every shot, While I ne'er fired in vain. I said, "Perchance the day's too hot?" He cried, "Amelia Jane!"

We shot throughout the livelong day, We always shoot together, And yet in a disgraceful way, He never touched a feather. I said, "How is it that you muff Your birds, my boy? Explain." He sighed and said, "I know it's rough But, oh, Amelia Jane!"

Quoth I, "Amelia Jane may be As plump as any partridge, But that's no reason I can see Why you should waste each cartridge." He shot the dog, then missed my head, But caused the keeper pain; Then broke his gun and wildly fled To join Amelia Jane!

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THE GROUSE THAT JACK SHOT

(_A Solemn Tragedy of the Shooting Season_)

This is the Grouse that _Jack_ shot.

This the friend who expected the Grouse that _Jack_ shot.

This is the label addressed to the friend who expected the Grouse that _Jack_ shot.

This is the Babel where lost was the label addressed to the friend, &c.

This is the porter who "found" the "birds" in the Babel where lost was the label, &c.

This is the dame with the crumpled hat, wife of the porter who "found" the "birds," &c.

This is the cooking-wench florid and fat of the dame with the crumpled hat, &c.

This is the table where diners sat, served by the cooking-maid florid and fat of the dame with the crumpled hat, &c.

This is the _gourmand_ all forlorn, who dreamed of the table where diners sat, served by the cooking-wench florid and fat, &c.

This is the postman who knocked in the morn awaking the _gourmand_ all forlorn from his dream of the table, &c.

And this is _Jack_ (with a face of scorn), thinking in wrath of "directions" torn from the parcel by railway borne, announced by the postman who knocked in the morn, awaking the _gourmand_ all forlorn, who dreamed of the table where diners sat, served by the cooking-wench florid and fat of the dame with the crumpled hat, wife of the porter who "found" the "birds" in the Babel where lost was the label addressed to the friend who expected the Grouse that _Jack_ shot!

MORAL.

If in the Shooting Season you some brace of birds would send (As per letter duly posted) to a fond expectant friend, Pray remember that a railway is the genuine modern Babel, And be very very careful _how you fasten on the label_!

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"WEDDED TO THE MOOR"

The sportive M.P., when the Session is done, Is off like a shot, with his eye on a gun. He's like _Mr. Toots_ in the Session's hard press, Finding rest "of no consequence." Could he take less? But when all the long windy shindy is o'er, He, like _Oliver Twist_, is found "asking for _Moor_!"

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A HINT IN SEASON

Remember, remember, The month of September-- Partridges, rabbits, and hares; Any hamper you send, My breech-loading friend, Put "Paid" on the label it bears.

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SPORTIANA.--A young sportswoman in the Highlands is reported to have shot "six fine stags through the heart." Must have been "young bucks." Of course, she used Cupid's bullets on her murderous career amid the harts.

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ON A DANGEROUS SHOT

(_By Mr. Punch's Vagrant_)

He seemed an inoffensive man When first I saw him on the stubble; Made on the self-same sporting plan As those who shoot with ease or trouble! The average men, in fact, whose skill (A thing of luck far more than habit) Tempts them at times to go and kill The hare, the partridge and the rabbit.

He rushed not and he did not lag; He kept the line when we were walking. He had a useful cartridge-bag; And was not prone to useless talking. He smoked an ordinary pipe; His guns were hammerless ejectors; He wore a fairly common type Of patent pig-skin leg-protectors.

He told a story now and then, Some ancient tale of fur or feather, That sportsmen love to smile at when On Autumn days they come together. In fact, he seemed to outward view In all his gunned and gaitered glory, Just such a man as I or you, Except--but that's another story.

Except (I'll tell it) when he shot: Then, then he did not care a cuss, sir; He blazed as if he hadn't got The least regard for life or us, sir. Our terrors left him unafraid; He tried for full-grown birds and cheepers, And, missing these, he all but made A record bag of guns and keepers.

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AT THE QUICKSHOT CLUB.--_First Sportsman._ Well, I killed four rabbits with two barrels last September.

_Second Sportsman._ And I had five partridges on one drive, three coming towards me, and two with fresh cartridges over the hill.

_Third Sportsman_ (_wearily_). But nobody comes up to my slaying of an elephant in Assam with a pea rifle. Would you like to hear the yarn?

[_The Third Sportsman is immediately left alone._

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Mr. Punch has pleasure in directing the attention of sportsmen of his own limited stature to an advertisement in the _Field_ announcing the sale of an estate, "including fifty acres of sporting woods, together with a small gentleman's residence."

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THE "CHEEP" OF THE PARTRIDGE

_Perdix Cinerea loquitur_

'Tis the voice of the sportsman. I hear him complain, "All my hopes of big bags have been damped by the rain. With birds shy and scarce, flooded furze and no stubble, To beat dripping covers is scarce worth the trouble." Aha! The wind's ill that blows nobody good, True, the wet has proved fatal to many a brood, Parent birds have made moan over eggs swamped and addled, When our covers were lakes in which ducks might have paddled, But partridges drowned when they'd scarce chipped the shell, Yet,--yes, on the whole, 'tis perhaps just as well. Water! Better than fire; and a cold in the head Is not _quite_ so bad as a dose of cold lead. Prime time for swell vassals of powder and shot! What's September to them, without plenty to pot? Oh! won't they fume, as they look out this morn On these damp furzy swamps, and yon drenched standing corn? Poor grumbling gun-maniacs! Isn't it fun? In the game "Birds _v._ Barrels" we birds will score one Just for once, I should hope. In this beautiful bog I am safe, I should fancy, from man, gun, and dog. They may bag a few birds on the skirts of the wheat, But I don't think _this_ cover will pay 'em to beat. St. Partridge be bothered! St. Swithin's _my_ Saint, May his rainy rain last, _I_ shall make no complaint. No! Farmers and sportsmen may grumble together-- For my part, I rather approve of the weather.

[_Left chuckling._

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OVER THE STUBBLE.--_Mr. Winchester Poppit_ (_at the luncheon by the coppice_). I must say that I like to see partridges driven.

_Captain Treadfoot Trotter_ (_who believes in shooting over dogs_). No doubt, Mr. Poppit, you'd like to see the poor birds driven in a coach, or a tandem, or a curricle; or, if I may judge by the way you sent my pointer round the last field, ye'd wish to put 'em in a circus!

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WILD SPORTS.--_The Sportsmen_ (_from the wood_). "Hullo, Tonsonby! You've had a good place. We've heard you blazing away all the afternoon. How many have you bagged?"

_Tonsonby_ (_a town man_). "O, bother your tame pheasants. I've tree'd a magnificent tom cat here, and had splendid sport, but I can't hit him. You come and try!"

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