The countryman is not always the guileless simpleton that he sometimes looks; nor, as we can show, is the Cockney sportsman. A holiday-making Londoner was shooting one day in a field beyond the cottage of a labourer, who came out to watch the sport. Suddenly a cry broke from him: he leaped into the air; then bellowed to the sportsman, waving a red handkerchief in signal. Up to the cottage rushed the sportsman, thinking that at the least the countryman had been stung by a hornet or bitten by a mad dog. "Look what ye've bin an' done," said the countryman, advancing. "'Tis a wonder I be alive; look what ye've bin an' done; look at my door, and look at these here shots." Saying which, he pointed to his newly painted door (the sportsman saw it was pitted with such holes as a rusty nail might make). He held out his hand and showed a good two ounces of shot (the sportsman saw they had never been fired from a gun). "These here shots," said the countryman, "they buzzed about me like a swarm of bees: 'tis a wonder I be alive." The sportsman agreed in the marvel of the escape, adding to its wonder by pointing out that his shot had been fired at a distance of five hundred yards from the cottage--and in the opposite direction. "Allow me," he said, "to buy back these wonderful pellets at a fair market price"--and he handed the countryman twopence. * * * * * Sporting Policemen In rural villages, keen sportsmen are often found beneath the uniforms of the policeman and the postman. No one knows better than the keeper how useful it is to be on friendly terms with the policeman--and no one knows better how to manage it. Often policeman and postman may be found doing duty as beaters, especially during September partridge shooting, when the harvest is late and out-of-work labourers are few. If you see through his disguise of plain clothes, the policeman will remark how he just thought he would have a walk for an hour or two, just to oblige Mr. Keeper. Upholding the law and delivering the post mean much walking: and country policemen and postmen, when passing along the roads early and late, find the haunt of many a fine covey. Being good sportsmen, they take note of the customary line of flight; and if you own some of the land of the covey's haunting they can tell you almost to a minute when the birds leave the turnips beyond the boundary for your stubble.