Partridge and quail shooting cease in this delightful part of the world about the middle of October, for by that time the partridges are so very wild and wary that there is no getting near them. The reason of this is, that our fields here are all open without either hedge or ditch, and when the corn and hemp are off, the stubble is pulled up so close by the poor people for fuel, that there is no cover for partridges; as to the quails, they are all either “killed off,” or take their departure for a wilder climate; and then there is nothing left for the French gentry to amuse themselves with but lark-shooting. These birds are attracted to any given spot in great numbers by a singular contrivance, called a _miroir_. This is a small machine, made of a piece of mahogany, shaped like a chapeau bras, and highly polished; or else it is made of common wood, inlaid with small bits of looking glass, so as to reflect the suns rays upwards. It is fixed on the top of a thin iron rod, or upright spindle, dropped through an iron loop or ring attached to a piece of wood, to drive into the ground as here represented. [Illustration] By pulling a string fastened to the spindle, the _miroir_ twirls, and the reflected light unaccountably attracts the larks, who hover over it, and become a mark for the sportsman. In this way I have had capital sport. A friend of mine actually shot six dozen before breakfast. While he sat on the ground he pulled the twirler himself, and his dogs fetched the birds as they dropped. However, I go on in the common way, and employ a boy to work the twirler. Ladies often partake in the amusement on a cold dry morning, not by shooting but by watching the sport. So many as ten or a dozen parties are sometimes out together, firing at a distance of about five hundred yards apart, and in this way the larks are constantly kept on the wing. The most favourable mornings are when there is a gentle light frost, with little or no wind, and a clear sky--for when there are clouds the larks will not approach. One would think the birds themselves enjoyed their destruction, for the fascination of the twirler is so strong, as to rob them of the usual “fruits of experience.” After being fired at several times they return to the twirler, and form again into groupes above it. Some of them even fly down and settle on the ground, within a yard or two of the astonishing instrument, looking at it “this way and that way, and all ways together,” as if nothing had happened.