Myself, I prefer setters for their pursuit, as more dashing, more enduring, and abler to face briars—others prefer pointers, as steadier on less work, and better able to fag without water. Either, well broke, are good—ill broke, or unbroke, worthless. Still give me setters—Russian or Irish specially! Quail fly very fast, and strong, especially in covert, and require the whole charge to kill them dead and clean. At cross shots, shoot well ahead; at rising shots, well above; and at straight-away shots, a trifle below your birds; and an oz. ¼ of No. 8, early, and of No. 7, late, will fetch them in good style. And so good sport to you, kind reader; for this, if I err not, is doomed to be a crack Quail season. ----- [2] A law was passed, during the spring of the present year, in that respectable and truly conservative State, by which the murder of unfledged July Woodcock, by cockney gunners was prohibited; and the close time judiciously prolonged until September. The debate was remarkable for two things, the original genius with which the Hon. Member for Westboro’ persisted that Snipe are Woodcock, and Woodcock Snipe, all naturalists to the contrary notwithstanding; and the pertinent reply to the complaint of a city member, that to abolish July shooting would rob the _city sportsman_ of his sport—viz., that in that case it would give it to the farmer. Marry, say we, amen, so be it! * * * * * THE SPECTRE KNIGHT AND HIS LADYE-BRIDE. A LAY OF THE OLDEN TIME. BY FANNY FIELDING. Lady Margaret sits in her father’s ha’ Wi’ the tear-drop in her een, For her lover-knight is far awa’ In the fields o’ Palestine. Now the rose is fled frae her downy cheek, An’ wan is her lily-white hand, An’ her bonnie blue e’e the tear doth dim, For her knight in the Holy Land. His banner it is the Holy Cross, But it gars her greet fu’ sair, As she meekly kneels and his lo’ed name breathes At _Our Mother’s_ shrine in prayer. “O, hae ye a care, sweet Mother fair, O’er the lion-hearted king, But send me back Sir Hildebrande safe, Abune a’ ither thing!” ’Tis Hallowe’en, and twelve lang months Hae i’ their turn passed round, An’ ’twas Hallowe’en when Sir Hildebrande marched For Palestine’s holy ground. The castle clock tolls midnight’s hour, An’ the ladye bethinks her now Of her lover’s words at the trysting-tree— His fervent and heartfelt vow. “O, ladye fair,” said the gallant Hildebrande, “When twelve lang months shall flee, Come ye then through the mossy glen Adown by the trysting-tree.