“What we thought to be a covey of partridges, proved to be a gang of gypsies, who were squatted under the hedge, peeling turnips and paring potatoes for dinner. It was the mercy of God we did not fire on them, as all our pieces were up to our shoulders, and we had but one eye open, apiece, when that, which we took to be the _old cock_, rose up, and said in a loud voice, ‘What the devil are ye about?’ “After much difficulties, and but little sport, got, by the direction of the gypsies, into the Greenwich road, where, being rather fatigued, we stopped at the Halfway house, until a coach came by, when, mounting the roof, and the box, we were conveyed near Blackheath, to our unspeakable joy. “Never saw the Heath before—amazed at the number of furze bushes, and the wide extent there is for game. Had an excellent chase after a jackass, when the mastiff tore his leg. Kept close together for fear of losing each other. “Got down near a large round house, shot at a flock of sparrows, and killed one, which we think is a cock, his head being rather black. “Saw several brother sportsmen out, who had killed nothing but a hedge hog and a tame jack daw, which belonged to the public house at New Cross Turnpike. “Got up to the main road, fired at a yellow hammer, and frightened the horses in the Dover stage. The guard threatened to shoot us, and we took to our heels. “Saw some black game flying very high. They looked for all the world like crows. “The terrier came to a point at a thick bunch of fern. We were now sure this must be a covey of partridges, and we prepared accordingly. The mastiff ran in, and brought out one of the young ones. It proved to be a nest of grass mice: took every one, and put them into the bolster. Grass mice were better than nothing. “Much fatigued, and agreed to shoot all the way home, fired off our guns at the foot of Greenwich Hill, and were laughed at by the inhabitants—loaded them again, and fired at a sheet of paper for half an hour without putting a grain in it. “We went into a cow-house, near Bermondsey Spa, to get some milk for the dogs, and, laying down upon a heap of straw, we all fell fast asleep. We were awakened by the entrance of a cow and her calf, when we found we had been robbed of our dogs and our guns. “We went into a public house to console ourselves for our loss, where we stayed till it was dark, that we might not be seen returning in such an unsportsmanlike manner. “Agreed on the way what stories we should tell about the day’s amusement and success: parted at the Monument, and went to our respective homes.” There was evidently the same tender-hearted sentiment then, as now, with regard to the “tournament of doves”—see the _Morning Post_, November 19, 1810: “The expert marksmen in _pidgeon killing matches_ are very properly denominated _slaughtermen_; four of these _humane_ gentlemen shot no less than _thirty-six_, for mere amusement, the other day on Finchley Common.”