WINTER
Rustic Wit
Countrymen often display a dry humour all their own. At a shooting party we fell in with a beater, into whose charge one of the guns had given a well-filled cartridge-bag. Every now and again we noticed that the beater thrust his hand into the bag, and regarded the cartridges which he pulled out with a puzzled look. We inquired the reason, and it transpired that some of the cartridges were loaded with No. 5 shot, and some with No. 5-1/2, and that the beater had been asked to sort them by their owner, a gun of indifferent merits. He said, in continuation of his story: "He did tell I he can't get on nohow wi' sich mixed tackle. I reckon if there weren't no shots in 'em at all 'twouldn't make ne'er a marsel o' difference."
The Oak City
Every oak-tree teems with life. Of insects alone five hundred species look mainly to the oak for support. When the tree grows to the age of fruitfulness—when sixty or seventy years have passed over its head—then its population is increased tenfold. Here is a reason for the incredible supplies of fruit—the great majority of the acorns go to support the pensioners, and thousands must be sown if one is to have a chance to develop into a seedling. Squirrels come to feast and hide the acorns as they hide nuts; the dormice come; human children come with sacks for the sake of the pigs at home; pheasants feast on the ground; rooks, more wary, amid the branches; hungry jays warn hungry wood-pigeons when the keeper approaches. To the animals, birds, and insects are added the parasite plants, fungi flourishing where a broken branch rots, lichens covering the bark, on the topmost bough the mistletoe.
Acorns
Were it not for the oaks there would be scanty winter faring and feasting for many wild creatures. When acorns and hazel-nuts are scarce, and full beech-masts are not plentiful, birds and beasts have an unusually hard struggle to tide over the winter, even should it be mild, as a paucity of nuts is supposed to foretell. Different creatures like their nut food in different conditions and at different times. The rooks in their greed pull the acorns from their cups where they grow, others do not relish them in their fresh green state, and wait until they are ripe and mellow. Pheasants, who are very partial to acorns in autumn and winter, when more delicate faring is not available, prefer to eat them just as they begin to sprout. Like corn and other seeds, acorns when sprouting possess a peculiarly attractive sweetness. Some of the trees seem to produce fruit of extra sweetness or extra fine flavour—at least, the gamekeeper finds that his pheasants seem to prefer to feed beneath certain trees. Perhaps it is that those trees which are most sun-drenched produce the sweetest acorns, just as the most exposed hazel-nuts on the topmost twigs are so much better than the pale ones of the lowest branches.
The keeper welcomes a generous supply of acorns—provided that the trees which yield them grow in his woods, and not exclusively near the boundary of his beat. Wood-pigeons, as soon as they have cleared the beech-mast, their specially favoured food, will stuff their crops with acorns to the bursting-point—and so grow fat. Acorns also form an important item in the winter fare of rabbits and deer. It is true that they draw rats to the coverts, and even when the last acorn has gone it is not easy to clear the rats away completely. Whether or not there are plentiful acorns, the keeper is much indebted to the oak for food for pheasants, because they are so fond of the spangle-galls, to be found in plenty on the backs of the leaves, that they prefer them even to the maize which is freely scattered. All the galls of the oak, whether oak-apples, or bullet, artichoke, spangle, or root galls, are the outcome of eggs laid by the various gall-wasps, and the pheasants know that within the spangle-galls are the grubs, feeding on the galls' flesh. Left to themselves, the grubs will in due time reach the chrysalis stage of existence, to be hatched in June as winged insects, and to lay in turn the eggs which cause the pretty vermilion-spotted galls. So the wheel of life turns again and would turn for ever if unspoked by the pheasant's beak.
Plump Rabbits
In mid-November rabbits are at their fattest. Grass has been green, sweet, lush, and growing; under the autumn sun, winter oats and wheat have sprung inches high, and rabbits have been enjoying rare feasts. The stoats, in turn, have found benefit in the autumn. It is on full-grown rabbits that they now depend chiefly for food. No longer can they feed on young birds; nor are small rabbits often to be met. Rats show fight when attacked, and stoats prefer to tackle game without power of resistance. Full-grown hares have too much staying power to be hunted down, and they are too fond of making for the open fields to be worth hunting. There are mice and field-voles, but the fat rabbits of the woods are the most obvious of possible meals. No hunt is more determined, ferocious, or relentless than when a stoat hounds a big rabbit to its death.
The Stoat's Hunting
By scent alone the stoat runs down the rabbit chosen for its dinner. No matter how devious the rabbit's course, or how many other rabbits cross the trail, the one line of scent is followed to the end, and sooner or later the death-scream of the rabbit is inevitable. We have often seen the last act of the tragedy. One hunted rabbit made for the shelter of young underwood, cleverly twisting amid the jungle of fern, grass, and bramble, so that the leaping stoat could have been guided only by scent; the rabbit seemed to understand that the hollowness of the bottom of old wood offered few chances of dodging. At last the rabbit grew exhausted; and, at a loss to know where to run to shake off its pursuer, but a few yards behind, took to turning and twisting with redoubled energy, now rounding a leafy stump, then dashing into a clump of brambles, doubling, again rounding the stump, again flashing through the brambles—then sitting up for a second, listening to hear if the stoat were still following. The stoat, thus baulked again and again, grew ever more furious. Coming up on the hot scent to the leafy stump, round which the rabbit had slipped in the nick of time, it would dash in so furiously as to make the brown leaves rattle off, as a terrier leaps at a rabbit's seat from which the owner has just fled. The burning scent throws the pursuer into a frenzy. But the stoat, with a chatter of rage, lost little time in following on into the bramble clump; and the sight of man near by was not enough to turn it from its object. At last, in the brambles, it came upon the rabbit dead-beat—charged in a blind fury, sank its teeth into the head, worrying home the grip. Then, having disabled the rabbit, it retired a yard or two and charged again, retiring and charging at intervals, as if to gain fresh power for driving in the needle-sharp teeth.... At such a moment the keeper feels more than ever justified in shooting a stoat.
Waiting for the end of such a rabbit hunt, for a moment we lost sight of the chase; then felt certain we could hear the hoarse breathing of the captured rabbit in a thick spot, on the opposite side of the 20-foot ride near where we were standing. Yet we felt certain that neither stoat nor rabbit had crossed from our side. We waited, and sure enough the stoat caught the rabbit almost at our feet, where we had thought them to be. The mystery of the heavy breathing remained—the sound was exactly that of a rabbit being mauled by a ferret within a burrow. We crossed the ride, made search, and discovered a large hedgehog curled up in its nest. While the bloodthirsty business had been going forward six or seven yards away, the hedgehog had lain snugly wrapped in winter sleep—actually snoring!
Mysteries of Scent
A stoat, if accidentally deprived of its power of scent, would soon come to starvation. All animals depend on scent not only for their food but for their protection, their power of recognition, and for nearly all the interests of their lives. The scent given off varies with occasion. In a state of rest it is modified. Thus a game-bird who has been on its nest for some time is in less danger of discovery than one that has just come to the nest, leaving a fresh trail. So the scent given off by foxes varies with their own condition—as, of course, with the weather. The greatest scent is left behind by the fox when he is warm with running; the least is given off at the beginning of a run, or at the end, when he is exhausted. The hunted fox well knows that his life may depend on the strength or weakness of his scent—this is made clear when he runs purposely through a herd of cattle or a flock of sheep.
Deluges of rain, burning sun, or extreme cold obliterate fox-scent, but slight heat combined with moisture, as when the sun shines after a warm shower, is in favour of a strong and enduring trail. But there is little certainty in the matter; as Mr. Jorrocks truly said, "Nothing so queer as scent 'cept a woman." On a promising day hounds may be at fault when within a score of yards of a fox; but on a day so apparently hopeless that few sportsmen trouble to attend a meet, as when a thin crust of hard-frozen snow covers the ground, the scent may be red-hot. One day may yield a perfect scent; on the next, apparently with the same weather conditions, the scent is elusive, and the hounds no sooner give tongue than they fall silent. Much depends on the nature of the country, or of the substance on which the volatile scent particles fall. Crossing the meadows, the hounds speak the line with certain voice; but when they come to dry, crumbling fallow-fields, the chorus dies away into a few doubtful whimpers. The time of the day has its effect on scent; in midsummer the woods may have no perfume in particular at midday, but are filled with sweet smells in the evening. Every one knows how a warm autumnal shower brings out the savour of dead leaves and the smell of earth.
To the fox, as to the stoat, the sense of smelling is the most important of all. With his nose the fox discovers nearly all his food. If the sitting game-bird has flown to her nest, and herself gives off the least perceptible scent, the fox easily finds her by that strong scent given off by chipping eggs. By scent he picks up the young leverets, after quartering the ground to gather the greatest advantage of the wind. He scents young rabbits in the stop when a foot beneath the surface of the earth, and when he starts digging them out he goes directly to their nest. So a good ratting terrier will point through a couple of feet of soil to the exact spot where a rat is lying. We have sometimes thought that an invention to magnify scents would prove of great benefit to the gamekeeper. But there might be fatal effects if a keeper, scent-improver on nose, came suddenly on that mushroom of the fetid odour commonly known as the Stinkhorn.
The Axe in the Coverts
One of the many thorns that pierce the keeper's side is driven home at the time of the cutting of the underwood. Once in every span of ten or twelve years this time must come. Now and again the felling of part of a covert before shooting improves matters from a sportsman's view—the beats are simplified, or are more easily commanded with the regulation number of from five to nine guns. But the keeper knows to his cost that more often than not cutting the underwood is ruination to sport. Birds and rabbits are alarmed by the sound of the woodman's chopping, and half the hares fly before the smoke of the greenwood fires. Many complications arise through wood-cutting, as when the shooting is in other than the landlord's hands. When he wishes to cut certain portions of his woods, and the cutting may interfere seriously with sport or the showing of game, unpleasantness must arise among all parties—landlord, gamekeepers, shooting men, and copse-workers. Those responsible for the shooting should find out as early as possible which parts are to be cut, and arrange in good time with the landlord to make it a condition of sale that no cutting takes place before a convenient date. When several acres of underwood are felled, and the wood is left lying in long rows called drifts, a good deal of inconvenience may arise, unless the underwood is worked up as cut down. On shooting days half the pheasants in the place may skulk in the drifts, whence it will be impossible to dislodge them by ordinary beating methods of the most energetic type. Besides, drifts provide a safe refuge for rabbits. They increase incredibly, and in the following year they will be by far too plentiful for the welfare of the young shoots that spring from the shorn stumps.
The Uses of Underwood
Thirty years ago the price of underwood as it stood growing, at twelve years old, was about twenty pounds an acre; but to-day five pounds an acre is considered a good price for first-class underwood, so hard has the industry been hit by substitutes for ash and hazel. Though we have known underwood to fetch only half a crown an acre, we have seldom seen it described by auctioneers as other than "prime and ripe." The most useful kind is hazel. All sorts of sticks and stakes for the garden are cut of hazel. Wattle-fences are made of it, neatly woven, and the "hethers" which bind the tops of live fences. Closely woven hazel hurdles form a splendid protection for sheep from wind and rain; they cost, to buy, about eight shillings a dozen, and the hurdler is paid about half that sum. Hazel is now largely used in making the crates in which the product of the Potteries is packed. The cleanest growths were formerly made into the hoops of barrels, and one might see thousands of bundles stacked in a clearing. But iron is killing the hoop-makers' industry. One use of hazel has been unaffected by time—the use to which the country blacksmith puts it, when he winds handles of the shoots for his chisels and wedges—being pliant, they allow his tools to adjust themselves to the blow of the hammer. And the hazel-wand remains the favourite divining-rod of the water-finders.
The Tipping System
Gamekeepers are much associated with tipping. If tips are to be reckoned as part wages, the element of chance is great and unfair. There are cases when tipping amounts to bribery, as when a rich man buys the best place in a shoot. For the system, it may be said that a tip is the most convenient token of appreciation of skill in producing good sport. And we agree that if any servant of pleasure deserves a tip it is the gamekeeper. But among the fallacies of the system is the fact that the scale of tips is seldom in proportion to skill and energy. Thus, a tip of a certain amount is given for a day's covert shooting of, say, under a hundred head, half pheasants, calling for a certain amount of energy and skill on the keeper's part. But a tip of only half the amount will be given after a thirty-brace day at driven partridges, which has afforded five times the amount of shooting, and called for ten times more skill and energy from the keeper. There is a saying among keepers that tips may be looked upon to provide three useful things—beer, 'baccy, and boots. In old times a five-pound note was the order of the day—this is represented now by half a sovereign or five shillings. A few keepers are lucky enough to serve where wealthy sportsmen shoot regularly, who willingly give the keeper a ten-pound note. But most keepers praise heaven for £10 received in tips in a season. Where the scale of tips most fails is when a tip covers compensation for injuries. But the beater who received a note on account of a stray pellet in his person was more than satisfied. "Bless you, sir," he said, "you may give me the other barrel for another of 'em." But beaters always find contentment in a tip, whatever its size. We recall how three beaters were more or less bagged successively during a three days' covert shoot. One, at the time, appeared to have had his right eye destroyed, but saw his way to accept twenty-five shillings. Another buried a shot in his little finger, and on receiving seven shillings was eager to undergo the same treatment for six days a week. A third was peppered behind, and awarded eighteen-pence, which satisfied him, being, as he lamented, "only a boy, like." By the way, there seems no place in the sportsman's scale of tips for awards for narrow escapes. We have known a keeper mention the fact quite unavailingly that his cap had been shot from his head by a careless gunner, who had brought down an easy bird with his first barrel, then, swinging round, had blazed at a second bird just as it topped the keeper's head. "Aw," he drawled, by way of answer, when the keeper respectfully intimated that he had escaped death by a miracle, "I certainly ought to have killed both of those birds."
Free Suppers for the Fox
How many foxes have owed their deaths indirectly to covert shooting? It is a nice question for hunting men. The fox is one of the craftiest creatures in the world. A very short experience is enough to make him associate the particular squeal of a rabbit when caught in a snare with a cheap supper. And he discovers quickly that luxurious banquets await him after a day's covert shooting. The discovery has a certain result; after covert shooting foxes gorge themselves, and become totally unfit to stand before hounds. To keepers this is well known, of course; and there are those who are not slow to take advantage of the fox's gluttony. Suppose a keeper thinks that a fox or two the less would not be amiss, and knows that on the morrow hounds are to be expected. There is, suppose also, no covert shooting at the moment in his immediate vicinity. Though unwilling to take more direct steps, he is fully prepared to handicap foxes before hounds so far as he may, and in the night before hounds come he provides free suppers for his foes. He is hardly to be blamed, and if blamed by the hunt one keeper at least has a ready answer. In view of a visit from so fine a pack, he says, he wished to show that he had forgiven the doomed foxes their sins, by spreading a final feast.
There are keepers who, not making the best of necessity, harbour in their breasts an undying grievance against foxes and take every chance to malign the foe. After a beat, during which the guns had stood in a hollow where pheasants had come at a good height, a sportsman was collecting birds that had fallen behind him, and to his surprise found a pheasant with its head apparently torn off. He suggested to the keeper that there must be foxes in the wood—foxes near at hand, and very bold. The keeper had reason to know better—but on picking up another headless pheasant, remarked sadly, "If they treats 'em like this 'ere when they be dead, it be cruel to think how they'd serve 'em when they ketched 'em alive." The sportsman was impressed by the keeper's melancholy tone, and began to share his fox-enmity. But the keeper's sharp eyes had seen what fate really had befallen the pheasants' heads—a fate strange enough, for as the birds fell their heads were torn off by the forks of ash-stems, in which they caught.
Clues to the Thief
By many signs keepers read the story of the presence and work of foxes. A fox makes a half-hearted attempt to bury game that he has partly eaten, and wishes otherwise to dispose of—and the buried game is so impregnated with his scent that no other creature will touch it. He barks at night in mid-winter days—and spreads uneasiness among sheep, as betrayed by the bleating of ewes. He digs in a way all his own, throwing out the soil behind him in a slovenly heap; he noses about mole-heaps and ant-hills, and his visit is easily detected. On soft spots he leaves his footmarks—and he always leaves his scent behind him. Pheasants without tails tell a story of a young fox's spring that failed to bring him a supper. Heads of rabbits, and nothing else, in snares, rejected maws lying near by—the disinterment of poaching cats which the keeper has buried—these show where hungry foxes have passed. By day their presence is revealed if a cock pheasant cries a sudden, uneasy, short alarm-note, by the screaming of jays, and by a particular blackbird note, which, if it does not mean stoat or cat, certainly bespeaks a fox. A crow may be seen suddenly swooping angrily as he passes over a field—a fox lurks there. The hidden cause for the continuous uneasy springing of partridges is often a fox, or at least a cub amusing himself by partridge hunting.
Muzzled by a Snare
A fox does not grow very old without learning how to take advantage of a snarer's catch. He learns to follow up runs and visit places where the snarer has set his snares. And he often pays the penalty, his feet falling foul of the noose. Hunting people commonly suppose that traps—steel gins—are the chief cause of fox-maiming, yet not once in a blue moon is a fox trapped. But if too clever to be caught in a trap, he is not clever enough to keep his feet out of the brass wire of the simple snare. We came across a curious instance showing how a fox may suffer from a snare. Hounds found a fox which ran to ground almost at once. Men were set to work to dig him out, and they found he was merely skin and bone, and round his muzzle they found part of a brass snare. The wire had fixed itself in such a way that he could scarcely open his mouth, so that he was handicapped both in catching food and eating it. From his appearance it was thought that he had been in this miserable plight for a month. It had been better for the fox if hounds had found him a month earlier.
Cunning Rascals
A fox, in emergency, will sham death to perfection. A Master of Hounds once noosed a fox in a whip as he bolted before a terrier from an earth. The fox appeared to have been strangled—when held up by the scruff of the neck his eyes were seen to be closed, his jaws gaped, and the body hung limply down from the hand. He was placed tenderly on the ground—only to dash off into covert. To be over-cunning is a common fault. One fox entered a fowl-house, and amused himself by killing every bird. In departing through the hole by which he had entered, he stuck fast, and was found hanging dead the next morning. Another sought refuge from hounds by jumping on to the low roof of a thatched cottage, and crawling beneath the rafters until he could crawl no farther. It was years before his skeleton was discovered. Some of the foxes found dead on railway lines, by the way, have been put there after death by vulpicides. In olden days the punishment for the crime of fox-killing was a spell in the stocks. Vulpicides remain, but the stocks—some would say alas!—have gone from use for ever.
A Hunting Argument
The hunting man has a hundred reasons why hunting is a blessing to the community. He argues that hunting circulates gold every year to the tune of seven and a half million pounds—and that this is good for the horse trade, the forage trade, for the blacksmith, the harness-maker, and for an army of grooms. Then hunting tends to keep at their homes in the country wealthy people, who might winter abroad if there were no foxes to follow. This means that many large establishments are kept open, servants are kept in food and wages, local tradesmen stand to benefit. Further, it is claimed that there is little to be said against hunting—we often hear how riders, horses, hounds, and foxes all enjoy the sport; on this point, however, we have no direct evidence from foxes. And it is claimed that the amount of damage done to agriculture is infinitesimal—though farmers who have had hounds over young corn, or seeds, or fine fields of turnips, might bring conflicting evidence to bear on the point. Perhaps the favourite argument in favour of hunting is that the sport is good for horse-breeding, and that the hunting-field is the finest training school for cavalry. Gamekeepers would be among the first to lament the abolition of fox-hunting, for if it were not for the existence of foxes and their preservation for the hounds, few keepers would be required to protect game. Nor would there be those useful little sums to the keeper's credit on account of litters, finds, and stopping.
The Clever Terrier
Nobody can persuade a gamekeeper that dogs lack reasoning powers. We were watching a terrier at work, and she gave us a pretty example of something very like intelligence. A pheasant was winged, fell on a bare field, and ran for a thick dell—the terrier in pursuit. She made one or two ineffectual attempts to gather the bird, until within a score of yards of the dell—then she raced ahead. She seemed to realise that there was so much cover in the dell that direct attempts to take the bird were risky—and she proceeded to work the pheasant to a safe distance from the cover before tackling it again, this time effectively.
When this little terrier has marked a rabbit or a rat in a patch of grass or brambles, her common sense tells her that if she dives in after her quarry it may dash out unseen by her, by reason of the grass or brambles. So she stands by, and stamps, and otherwise tries to make her game bolt, in a way which will allow her to see the direction; and she is seldom baffled. It is difficult to decide whether this terrier is more or less reasonable than her kennel companion, a retriever, when feeding-time comes. If at feeding-time the retriever has a biscuit left over from the last meal, which she has lightly buried, on her master's approach she will promptly disinter the treasure, holding it out as much as to say: "Thank you, I need no biscuit." But experiments with the terrier show that she will ever refuse to give the slightest indication of a buried hoard. Whether she needs a biscuit or not, she always takes one when offered, as though she desired nothing better in the world.
A good story in proof of a retriever's reasoning powers is told by an old-time sportsman. He was shooting beside a frozen stream, and winged a mallard, which fell in mid-stream. His dog crashed on to the ice, broke through it, and fought her way to the middle, where the ice only skimmed the water. She swam round for a moment, then broke her way to the opposite bank, paused to give a knowing look at the thin ice, and went down stream at full speed for about eighty yards. Running down the bank, she broke a hole in the ice with her fore-paws, then crouched back, watching the hole. In a few moments she made a spring and plunged in, reappearing in mid-stream with the mallard in her mouth. There was no doubt, at least in her master's mind, that she had broken the hole for the purpose of catching the bird when he came up to breathe.
Born Retrieving
A keeper owned two retriever puppies who were given a curious start in life. Their mother was shut up at home, while her master went to shoot some rooks. She was the proud mother of five new-born puppies, but her litter was not complete. A few rooks had been shot, and the keeper was waiting for others to appear, when up ran the retriever carrying a rook in her mouth; somehow she had managed to get out, and had followed to see the sport. She was sent back to her puppies, and directly she reached home two new puppies were born. They were born, as one might say, retrieving.
Some Sporting Types
The most common type of gunner is the man who kills frequently, but is not a good shot because he does not know how to take his birds. He would double his bag if he would put every shot a foot farther forward—that golden foot forward—if he would not fire when in the act of turning (which must depress the gun's muzzle), and if he would remember that driven birds on seeing a man rise immediately and instinctively, even at right angles to their line of flight. The keeper detests the man who continually sends him to pick up game which has never fallen. For these knowing gentlemen, he is a wise keeper who carries a special bird or two in his pocket, against the time when they say, in their haughty way, "Aw, my man, kindly pick up my bird that fell tha-ar!"
The luckiest shot we ever met was a colonel who, one windy day, happened to be stationed by himself on a road lined by telegraph-wires. All the birds came his way, and with ten shots he killed one. Startled by his volleys, a bunch of passing birds blundered into the telegraph-wires which, more deadly than the gun, claimed nine victims. The colonel was a study in modesty when he remarked a little later that in ten shots he had been lucky enough to bag five brace.
Victims of Wire
Unfortunately the best stands for partridge-driving are often behind hedges flanked by telegraph-wires. This is specially unfortunate when the birds see the guns just before they pass beneath the wires. Up they go, and a whole covey may be cut to pieces at the moment when fingers were pulling triggers. Though a brace of birds fall dead at the sportman's feet, evidently neatly taken in front, to the sportsman this is not the same as a brace to his gun: he would prefer, indeed, a good old-fashioned miss.
Stoat or Weasel?
Many country people who ought to know better are hazy on the distinction between stoats and weasels. We can forgive the Cockney uncertainty of this sort, as we forgive him for calling rooks, and even starlings, crows. The countryman may well confuse crows and rooks; his safest plan when in doubt about a big black bird is to name him rook, for in most parts crows are now scarce to the point of extermination. But those who live in the country have as little excuse for speaking of stoats, when they should speak of weasels, as for mixing rabbits with hares. It is easier to tell a weasel from a stoat than a rabbit from a hare, if one is fairly close and has a clear view. A weasel is quite a third of the size of a stoat and a third of the weight: the males of both weasels and stoats are about twice the size of the females. But the outstanding distinction between stoat and weasel is the long, black-tufted tail of the stoat, and the short, unassuming tail of the weasel—no more conspicuous than a mole's tail.
"The Horrid Badger"
We have come across many curious cases of ignorance on these points. A countryman who had dwelt with stoats and weasels all his life, and had killed hundreds by trap and gun, yet had no idea of the true difference. Whichever he saw, or killed and hung up by a twisted twig, he determined to be stoat or weasel according to its size. Then we remember a lady who kept chickens, and suffered the loss of half a brood. She called in a passing keeper to settle the question of the thief. After waiting a while the keeper shot a weasel in the act of returning for another chicken. The lady of the chickens was overjoyed at this retribution, and presented the keeper with half a crown. Her words in making the presentation have been treasured by the keeper: "This," said she, "is for shooting the horrid badger."
Chalk-Pit Haunts
To the old chalk-pit, where the sun is trapped and the winds are kept at bay, come all kinds of creatures for warmth and sanctuary. However deserted the fields of winter seem to be—however silent and sullen—signs of life are never wanting in the chalk-pits; they are as inns to wayfarers who search the country for a living and lodging. Creep silently, against the wind, to the chalk-pit's edge, and in summer or winter, sunshine or shower, on a still day or a windy, you will catch a glimpse of some wild creature, a visitor, or one of those who have made their home in the pit for the sake of sustenance or shelter.
When the Fox sleeps
The sparrow-hawk may be caught napping on some favourite perch, as on a stunted tree, in a sheltered nook. The partridge covey may be seen for a moment, as the birds revel in the powdery soil, roofed by an overhanging ledge—seeing you, they go whizzing off amid a little cloud of dust. In the dead herbage a wily old cock pheasant crouches, who long since denied himself the luxuries and the dangers of social life in the big woodlands: he crouches as he sees you, but not so quickly that you may not note the sinking of his glossy neck. Two or three rabbits scuttle off to the doors of their burrows. Through the bushes a hare steals away. No chalk-pit is complete without a rabbit-burrow, a blackbird, and a robin. If hounds came more often to the chalk-pits they would save themselves many a blank hour. There is no peace for the fox in the coverts, but the old chalk-pit is as quiet as a church.
When Ferret meets Fox
An exciting moment for rabbiters comes if a fox bolts from a burrow when only a rabbit is expected—so exciting a moment that if there is a man with a gun the fox is lucky to escape a shot—especially should he have in his mouth the quivering body of a favourite ferret. And the ferret is lucky to come alive from a hole if he meets the fox in the only passage by which he can leave the burrow. But ferrets often escape if the burrow is not a proper fox-earth, but has been used only as a temporary shelter. Even if caught in the fox's jaws there may be hope for the ferret; we heard of one who was none the worse for a long ride between a fox's teeth. Like dogs and cats, foxes can be soft-mouthed if they will. We have known a fox to deal so tenderly with a captured rabbit that it ran about after the long jaws had released their hold; and for some time it amused its captor as a mouse amuses a cat. A fox, when he wishes, can carry an egg without breaking the shell.
February Rabbits
Towards the end of January rabbits begin to fall off in condition. As food becomes less nourishing their reserve supplies of fat gradually dwindle. But with the end of the game season the price on their heads begins to rise: and the keeper who has hard work to meet the expenses of a shoot looks to the rabbit-catch of February to swell the credit side of his accounts. Most people know that a hen pheasant is more tender and delicate to eat than a cock, though cock and hen may be of the same age. So with rabbits—those who sell rabbits might well charge a penny or two more for the does than for bucks. The countryman knows that the tenderest rabbits are those that he may skin with the least difficulty.
The Moucher's Excuse
While the gamekeeper is seldom at fault in the matter of a ready excuse, he meets many people who are his superior in carrying ever-ready lies on their lips. From poachers and mouchers, as the haunters of hedge-sides are called, he might learn the lesson that no excuse is better than a fine excuse that is shallow. One Sunday morning a keeper, dressed in his go-to-meeting clothes—a useful disguise—came sauntering silently down a road bounded by unkempt hawthorn hedges. His trained ear caught the sound of a dog careering past him on the field-side of the road: then he saw the dog's master, who, on seeing him, set up a sudden and energetic whistling. Of this the dog took no notice; with his nose well down, he rushed on to a rabbit-burrow and began digging furiously. "These hedges are full of rats," remarked the dog's master. "My dog killed five just now." Asked what had happened to their bodies, Mr. Moucher replied calmly, "He swallowed 'em whole." On the keeper suggesting that there was not much chance of finding a rat in the rabbit's burrow, the moucher agreed, called off his dog, and went his way. In the hedges there was no sign of a rat, but a few rabbits managed to eke out an existence, though heavily persecuted by gentlemen of the road.
When Hounds come
The opening of the hunting season proper brings a new anxiety to the keeper. While it opens in early November, no date is recognised. The keeper would like to see one fixed, and he would make it after his coverts had been shot at least once. Many shooting men would also like to see the idea established that hounds should not come to their woods until after the first shoots, especially where there are many hares. Often a landowner will refuse a master's request for permission to come his way until he has done with his coverts. The keeper does not so much object to the hounds merely passing through when in full cry, for then the hounds run in a compact body, and pay no attention to game. They only disturb a line about ten yards wide right through the woods. What disturbs every game-bird and hare in the place is drawing a covert, particularly when scent is bad and foxes are in evidence, but not to be forced away. Unhappy the keeper who must throw open his coverts at all seasons while other neighbouring coverts are closed. The prohibition of one wood often leads to the closing of many more; and hunt officials are well advised to break down, by every power of persuasion, all restrictions which favour one or two keepers at the expense of brother keepers. At any rate, we think it would be an excellent idea that the keeper whose coverts are always open to hounds should have double the reward paid for a find to the keeper whose coverts are open only after Christmas.
When Hounds are gone
Those who shoot in the wake of hounds are no sportsmen. To state a case in illustration of this: A sportsman has the shooting of a wood bounded on one side by another's fields. In days gone by he was glad to keep a fox for hounds, and gladly he would throw open his wood to the hunt, in a reasonable way. In the cause of sport, he was content that his pheasants and hares should be driven out of his wood into his neighbour's fields and hedgerows. But when he found that his neighbour was the sort of man to shoot in the wake of hounds, so that the evicted creatures were given no fair chance to return to their home-wood, but instead were shot in the afternoon following a morning visit of hounds—he felt compelled to close his wood to the hunt, with the natural sequence that he was soon compelled to bar the covert to foxes also. No shooting days in the wake of hounds should be a golden rule for all neighbourly neighbours.
Poachers' Weapons
Of poachers there are many types; and the worst are the organised bands that hail chiefly from colliery and manufacturing districts. These men are murderous ruffians, and the keeper who interferes with them carries his life in his hand. Wives look anxiously indeed for their husbands' return when such a band is about. The gangs chiefly practise night shooting, and pheasants are their object. But they are as ready to fire at a keeper as at pheasants. We were shown a single-barrelled muzzle-loading gun which a keeper had taken from such a poacher, who had shot a roosting pheasant under his very eyes. After the shot, the keeper went up to the man, who pointed the gun straight at his head, threatening to fire if he advanced another yard. But the keeper knew his man—and his gun. He knew there had been no time for the ruffian to reload. He knocked up the barrel, and caught his man, who in due time was sentenced to nine months' imprisonment. Had his gun been double-barrelled, it would have been another story, and a tragic one. A favourite weapon, and a deadly, in these poachers' hands is a heavy stone slung in a stocking.
Moles' Skins for Furs
For moles' skins the keeper has no sentiment. He will not part with his skins of rare birds—but will willingly barter the prospect of wearing a moles' skin waistcoat for the price of an ounce of shag a skin. By catching moles he pleases the farmers, who know no more than he himself about any good work that moles do: he frees his rides from unsightly heaps and raised tunnellings; and now and then his mole-traps catch a weasel. Many keepers make a fair sum of money each year by selling moles' skins; furriers will as readily give twopence for a skin as others threepence or sixpence. The skins, cut close round the head, are drawn from the moles' bodies as a man draws stockings from his legs; they are pegged out, fur downwards, on a board, to be dried and powdered with alum, then are stuffed with meadow hay, and packed by scores or hundreds. Perhaps no fur is quite so soft and beautiful as the mole's; and the keeper is always well pleased to note how well the pelts of his enemies become women-folk's faces.
Covert-shooting Problems
To shoot while there are still many leaves on the underwood and trees, and while there is a full muster of pheasants, or to wait until there are fewer leaves and fewer pheasants—that often is the question. For there are many coverts in which pheasants will not stay after the fall of the leaf. Then the shooting man who does not own the coverts to which his birds will betake themselves must make the best of things, and be content to bring down more leaves than pheasants, and often nothing but leaves. What with the showering of leaves and the crashing of shot-pruned boughs and dead wood, he may imagine that a pheasant must be an extra heavy bird—only to find that not a feather has been touched. To shoot pheasants among a crowd of leafy oaks is no simple matter—it is more difficult than to shoot a rocketer in the open valley. One thing may be said for this aggravating pastime; it teaches the slow shooter to be quick.
"Cocks only"—to compromise
There are good reasons for shooting coverts for the first time before the end of November, apart from the fear of a leakage of pheasants. A sack of corn a day will quickly swell a bill to uncomfortable proportions. Unshot coverts also mean that the whole time of keepers and watchers is taken up, with a string of awkward consequences. Thus, little can be done to thin the rabbits, for fear of disturbing the other game in the coverts. Each night some of the hares go out, never to return. Hunting must be curtailed in self-defence. Then again, neighbours may be shooting, and it is very certain that what goes into your neighbour's bag cannot go into yours. The best compromise between shooting in woods still leafy and waiting for the sporting Christmas pheasant to soar far above the tops of the bare trees, is to shoot "cocks only" at the first covert shoots. This may be a perplexing plan to those not accustomed to it—either they include a good many hens, or they let off a good many cocks which they mistake for hens. It is a plan to make the nervous man shoot his worst. And the keeper, as a rule, will not be found to favour it, unless the guns are discriminating and good, and appreciate sport more than bag. But sooner or later the day of "cocks only" must come—why should it not come at the beginning and be done with?