But the irrepressible and inextinguishable Lester rises triumphant in this emergency. He boldly suggests that there _must be_ some sluggards, who have tarried, spell-bound by the attractions of such a terrestrial, or, rather ornithological, paradise; and accordingly, he _hitches up_ a venerable specimen of the genus “_Equus_,” and we start for an excursion “over the hills and far away.” Before we have advanced a couple of miles we have bagged a half dozen solitary specimens of Bartram’s Sandpiper or Grey Plover, so dear to the sportsman and the gourmand, but have seen no trace of the object of our pursuit. When, suddenly, as we surmount one of the swelling eminences which are the prevailing feature of this district of country, we come upon a sight such as, perhaps, but few sportsmen have ever beheld. A gentle hollow spreads before us, for several acres, literally covered with the ranks of the much-desired, the matchless Golden Plover. As they stand in serried legions, the white mark on their heads gives a strange chequered weirdness to the phalanx: and we involuntarily pause, spell-bound by the novelty of the spectacle. Lester himself, though an old hand, owns that he has never before gazed on such a sight. There they stand with heads erect, and bodies motionless, just out of gunshot. Their number is computed by our companion to be not less than three thousand, closely packed, and apparently awaiting our onset. What is to be done? Delay may be fatal, but precipitancy would be equally so: and our pulses stop beating under the stress of the emergency. Our horse also stops, obedient to an involuntary pull of the reins. We accept the omen, and cautiously descend from our vehicle; warily crawling to within seventy yards, we halt as we see unmistakable evidences of uneasiness and suspicion among the crowded ranks. They stoop, they run, they rise with “a sounding roar,” to which the united report of our four barrels savagely responds. Away, away with headlong speed, scatters and dissolves that multitudinous host, and we hasten to secure our spoils. But, seventy yards make a long range for plover-shooting, and we are somewhat chagrined to find that only six dead and seven wounded birds remain as proofs of the accuracy of our aim, and the efficiency of our weapons. Hurriedly we plant our stools, hoping for the return of at least a considerable portion of the vanished forces; but they have apparently had enough of our society, and, after two hours spent in ambush, with only an occasional shot at single stragglers or small flocks, we wend our way back to the house.