Many gamekeepers we have known. Looking back down the years we can summon to view a serried regiment of the servants of sport; large men and small, rough and gentle, brown-clad men, some in velveteen, others in rough tweed, most of them in stout leggings, all with the keen eyes of watchmen, bronzed by the sun, beaten by the weather; good men and true, every man of them. The best of them are strong, upright, fearless, full of confidence; men who neither beg favours nor grant them; set their own standards; keep their own counsels; take no false oaths, whatever the provocation of the poacher; who, in preserving game, have no enmity against other living creatures; who are all-round sportsmen and lovers of fair play. At the end of the long line, farthest from view yet most distinct, stands an old man with silver hair, with light blue eyes, and a face kindly, yet sharp as a hawk's, the keeper who was first to show us how to hold a gun. Many fine stories this old man would tell, leaning over a gate, gun in hand, of Master this and Master that, uncles and such-like, even then old men to a boy's eyes, yet still called, by the older keeper, by their familiar names. "I mind the time," he would begin, his eyes twinkling: and then he would ramble off into the history of some wild affray with gipsies or with poachers, enough to make a boy's hair stand on end. One time that often came to his mind was when Master Charles plagued the life out of him to be taken, at night, through a bedroom window, by way of a ladder, on a hunt for poachers; and how at last he yielded to entreaty, though it was as much as his place was worth if Master Charles's guardian got wind of the affair. So he chose a bright moon-lit night, when he was tolerably certain that no poachers would venture forth; whistled beneath Master Charles's window, upraised a ladder, and got the young gentleman safely to ground, in nothing more than nightshirt, greatcoat, and bedroom slippers. Off they went together, and it was the keeper's heart that beat fastest. Arrived in the Long Walk, what should they see but two poachers with bows and arrows, shooting the pheasants in their sleep. The keeper's first idea was to send the young master back to bed; but he was not to be denied this grand adventure: and with a yell and a bound he was among the poachers before the keeper could say Jack Robinson. It was a desperate affair, not only for the poachers, but more particularly for the gamekeeper; but he still lives to tell the tale, with ever more wonderful variations. * * * * * The Converted Shepherd