Part 4

_Keeper._ "Oh no, sir, I think he's all right, sir. He mostly drop down like that if anybody misses!!"]

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BALLAD OF THE CUNNING PARTRIDGE

The partridge is a cunning bird, He likes not those who bring him down: From age to age he has preferred The shots that blaze into the brown, Whose stocks come never shoulder high, Who never pause to pick and choose, But on whose biceps you descry The black, the blue, the tell-tale bruise.

Or should a stubborn cartridge swell, And jam, as it may chance, your gun, The sly old partridge knows it well, "Great Scott!" he seems to chirp "here's fun!" He gathers all his feathered tribe, They leave the stubble or the grass, And with one wild and whirling gibe Above your silent muzzles pass.

Your scheme you carefully contrive, And, while each beater waves his flag, Your fancy, as they duly drive, Already sees a record bag. But lo! they baulk your keen desire, For, though with birds the sky grows black, Not one of them will face the fire, And every blessed bird goes back.

For partridges I'll try no more; Why should I waste in grim despair? Take me to far Albania's shore, And let me bag the woodcock there. Or on the Susquehanna's stream I'll shoot with every chance of luck The gourmet's glory and his dream, The canvas-back, that juicy duck.

Yea, any other bird I'll shoot, But not again with toil and pain I'll tramp the stubble or the root. Nor wait behind a fence in vain. For of all birds you hit or miss (I've tried it out by every test), Again I say with emphasis The partridge is the cunningest.

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SPORT IN SPORT

(_Game played by Dumb-Crambo, Junior_)

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* * * [Illustration: Full cock]

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HOW MOSSOO SHOT THE COCK-PHEASANT

(_The Gamekeeper's Story_)

He were a sort o' Frenchman, sir, And called hisself a Duck: I never could make head or tail O' that there furrin muck! He came to stay wi' Master there. And brought his guns and that-- But bless you, sir! he could na' shoot, No more than this here hat!

The Master and the Frenchman went To shoot the spinney-kivver What reaches from the stable-wall Right down to that there river. A rocketing cock flew up at wunst, And Mossoo he fired, and missed-- How he did swear, and tear his hair, And shake his little fist!

The way that Mossoo danced about, It really were a sight! He'd grin, and pull his beard, and shout And screech with all his might. He wore a thing across his nose Just like a kind o' shear: I think he said he were "my hop"-- Which means his sight were near.

Mossoo he yelled, "I see him zere, Upon ze stable top!" With that he banged off right and left-- I seed a summat drop; I ran to pick up that there bird; And 'neath the stable-clock I found it sure enow--it were Our new gilt weather-cock!

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BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LTD., PRINTERS, LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.