Nowadays, the First on a large shoot passes much as other days, for October has usurped the prestige of September, and the big partridge drives are reserved until that month. But when the keeper goes home to his tea on the First, his wife, with ever-ready sympathy, is likely enough to notice "summat's up." There is a scowl on the tanned face, and a vindictive look in the keen eyes, and the way in which the thirsty throat is flushed with a pint or so of tea suggests a forlorn attempt to drown trouble. At last the murder is out: "They pot-hunters," growls the keeper, "they has bin and wiped out half my birds." Shots have been heard all day near his boundary; on the neighbouring small shoot the First has not been allowed to go by unhonoured. * * * * * Early Birds With the First come poachers, anxious to win the big rewards paid for the earliest birds to reach the market. Netting is not so prevalent as of old, but more of it is done than most people imagine, since netting is practised in the dark, and in fields easily entered from public roads. The best preventive is to dress the fields in which the birds chiefly jug--stubbles, pastures, and fallows--with small pieces of tangled wire-netting, and small bushes, left lying on the ground, so that they may roll with the net, and entangle it the more hopelessly. A sneaking method of poaching is to set gins in the partridges' dusting-places, such as ash-heaps, the remains of burnt couch--the keeper forms a habit of probing such dust-baths with his stick. As dawn breaks on September 1, the poacher conceals himself in a ditch commanding a fallow where the coveys jug. Then he sends his dog or his son to stroll casually and slowly to and fro across the field at the far end. The birds, not hard-pressed enough to take wing, make for a furrow, and run in a solid bunch towards the ambush, to be greeted by a heavy charge of shot, calculated to account for several brace. One shot--a rush for the fallen birds--and the poacher has flown. * * * * * Walking-up One hears a great deal of praise lavished on the old-fashioned style of walking-up partridges, to the detriment of driving. True, where birds and cover are not abundant, a bag of fifteen brace or so made by two or three guns will often represent much clever sportsmanship--besides a hard day's tramping and some shots not to be despised. Yet there is a way of walking-up birds which is nothing more nor less than butchery. In September, the partridges are mobbed and worn out by men whose duty it is to drive them from the barer fields into thick roots, there to be walked up--and snuffed out like so many candles at short range. This may be magnificent for the bag, but it is not sport. Again, partridges on occasion may even be walked up in standing corn. That is a moral crime, and ought to be a legal one. * * * * *