Warwick Woodlands: Things as they Were There Twenty Years AgoHerbert, Henry William
General
Warwick Woodlands: Things as they Were There Twenty Years Ago
Herbert, Henry William
New York (State) -- Description and travel; Shooting
Whirr--r--r! "There they go--a glorious bevy!" exclaimed Harry, as he
cocked his right barrel and cut down the old cock bird, which had risen
rather to his right hand, with his loose charge--"blaze away, Frank!"
Bang--bang!--and two more birds came fluttering down, and then he
pitched his gun up to his eye again, and sent the cartridge after the
now distant bevy, and to Frank's admiration a fourth bird was keeled
over most beautifully, and clean killed, while crossing to the right, at
forty-six yards, as they paced it afterward.
"Now mark! mark, Timothy--mark, Frank!" And shading their eyes from the
level sunbeams, the three stood gazing steadily after the rapid bevy.
They cross the pasture, skim very low over the brush fence of the
cornfield--they disappear behind it they are down! no! no! not yet--they
are just skirting the summit of the topped maize stalks--now they are
down indeed, just by that old ruined hovel, where the cat-briers and
sumac have overspread its cellar and foundation with thick underwood.
And all the while the sturdy dogs are crouching at their feet unmoving.
"Will you not follow those, Harry?" Forester inquired--"there are at
least sixteen of them!"
"Not I," said Archer, "not I, indeed, till I have beat this field--I
expect to put up another bevy among those little crags there in the
corner, where the red cedars grow--and if we do, they will strike down
the fence of the buckwheat stubble--that stubble we must make good, and
the rye beside it, and drive, if possible, all that we find before us to
the corn field. Don't be impatient, and you'll see in time that I am in
the right."
No more words were now wasted; the four birds were bagged without
trouble, and the sportsmen being in the open, were handed over on the
spot to Tim; who stroked their freckled breasts, and beautifully mottled
wing-coverts and backs, with a caressing touch, as though he loved them;
and finally, in true Jack Ketch style, tucked them up severally by the
neck. Archer was not mistaken in his prognostics--another bevy had run
into the dwarf cedars from the stubble at the sound of the firing, and
were roaded up in right good style, first one dog, and then the other,
leading; but without any jealousy or haste.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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