What a Cat may kill
A strange confession was made by a cat-lover concerning the cat of her fireside. The confession was made publicly; in fact, in the columns of an obscure local paper. It was to the effect that the cat had brought in to her kittens, in one week, twenty-six field-mice, nineteen rabbits, ten moles, seven young birds, and two squirrels—all of which passed through her mistress's hands; there may have been others not taken account of. It never seemed to enter the head of the cat's mistress that any hurt was being done to other people's interests by this poaching of rabbits, nor that any neighbouring gamekeeper might read her words. It would be unfair to argue that all cats, with or without kittens, are as bad as this one; we have heard of cats a great deal worse. Naturally a mother cat forages far and wide for food; but she hunts chiefly for small things, and knows that mice and birds are more suitable for her weaning kittens than sitting partridges and pheasants. It is that arch old villain, Sir Thomas, who commits the crimes for which mother cats are blamed. But the keeper has no hesitation in bringing home to all cats a reparation, sudden and effective, for Sir Thomas's sins.
A Cockney Story
A gamekeeper friend told us, with infinite delight, this quaint little story. If we are to believe him, he was sitting one fine September day behind the hedge of a cornfield, thinking about the coveys hidden in the corn, when he became aware that a lover and his lass were sitting on the road side of the hedge, directly behind him. They were Cockneys, and this was the first of their days of country holiday-making. Presently the lover speaks. "Emma," says he, "just look at this pretty fly wot's settled on me 'and." "Lor'!" says Emma, "ain't he a daisy?" A pause follows; the lovers are silently contemplating the beauties of the fly. Emma suggests he is out for an airing in his racing colours—yellow and black. Then the lover calls out in a voice of mingled amusement and pain. "Crikey!" he cries, "ain't 'is feet 'ot?"
Hares in Small Holdings
The hare that haunts a small holding has a slender chance of dying a natural death in ripe old age. But we have a little story of how a small-holder was converted from hare-shooting. He was a man who rented a meadow on the outskirts of a large village; and it chanced that hares were much attracted to this pleasant spot. The gamekeeper of the shooting tenant was deeply troubled by the drain on his stock of hares caused by the small-holder; but there was little he could do to stop the slaughter that went on at all times and seasons, and by all manner of means. He had the good sense to keep on friendly terms with the troublesome sportsman, and at last he thought that some improvement might be brought about by arranging a laugh at his expense. He stuffed a hare, and one night set up the skin in the meadow, at a fair range from a gap in the hedge. Early next morning the news reached the small-holder that there was a hare in his field. Off he started with gun and dog; saw from the gap that the hare was sitting up, "jest about a pretty little shot," took steady aim, and fired both barrels to make sure of a kill. How his dog retrieved a hare-skin stuffed with hay was a story that soon became public property in the village and the neighbourhood, and from that day forward there has been no safer place for a hare than this man's meadow.
The Sins of the Father
The gamekeeper often picks up hints about poachers in unexpected ways. His wife, as a rule, takes no great interest in the affairs of game; yet every now and again she is able to tell her husband some news that may be at once bad and good. It happened that the wife of a highly respected gardener fell ill, and one afternoon the keeper's wife kindly offered to take charge of her children. The eldest child, a boy of about six, seemed to have little to say for himself; but, as the party was walking silently along a lane, he suddenly said in a voice that promised well to be a bass some day: "Our muver, she do make we some good dinners." "Indeed," said the keeper's wife, "and what does she give you for dinner?" The boy answered eagerly and proudly: "Bunny rabbits, m'm." "Indeed," said the keeper's wife again, "and where does mother get the bunny rabbits?" "Please, m'm, faither buys 'em off a man as brings 'em." "Oh! in-deed!" said the keeper's wife, and it was not long before one more receiver of stolen rabbits was brought to justice.
The Pheasants' Roosting-Trees
When the oaks shed their leaves night has a new danger for the roosting pheasants. They become easy targets for the gun of the night shooter. While the leaves remain the pheasants are well screened—and they often owe their lives to their habit of roosting in oaks, where the leaves give shelter long after beeches are bare. On a night of bright moonshine beeches scarcely provide any cover for the bulky form of a roosting pheasant. No doubt it is rather for comfort than through cunning that pheasants choose a roosting-place in oaks. They show no cunning in choosing their oak-tree, for they will roost night after night on some low branch overhanging a road. They seem naturally to prefer oaks to beeches for a lodging. Unlike most trees, oaks throw out their branches horizontally, but beeches' branches tend to rise vertically. Their bark is smooth and cold, but oak bark is rough, easily gripped, and warm.
When oaks have lost all their leaves the beeches provide the better cover; for their vertical lines form some sort of screen. Even with a full moon it is not always easy to see sleeping pheasants which go to roost in the lower branches. It may be more difficult to see a roosting pheasant than to shoot it—though the hardest shot a pheasant can give is when it flies by night. Fir-trees in a pheasant covert have a special value to the roosting birds. While unsuitable as sleeping-places, for the birds cannot fly up through the thick twiggy branches, nor can they see where they are going, the firs make the more suitable roosting-trees warm and cosy, and against their dark background it is difficult to see the pheasants, and to shoot them. The poacher has no liking for sporting shots.
The Fox in the Storm
Wet weather is often a benefit to the fox. Like all accomplished night thieves he is more venturesome in attacking hand-reared birds when the wind howls and rain beats heavily down. The storm drowns what little noise there may be from his stealthy feet; and the scent of the birds is stronger by reason of their steaming bodies. In wet autumns foxes take their heaviest toll of the young birds that have grown to a fair size—the dripping trees incline the birds to sleep on the ground long after they are able to fly, and should be flying nightly to roost. Grave risks are run by birds that sit on their nests through wet June nights.
Foxes at Pheasant Shoots
Foxes are sometimes found among pheasants where wire, or string netting, has been set up at the flushing-places, to prevent the birds running instead of flying, and to cause them to rise and fly at a sporting height and pace. When it is too late, and the beaters have come to the flushing-place, the indignant "cock-ups" of the pheasants are heard, and then they rise in a great rush, too thick and fast for the convenience of sport. We remember one case where a stampede of pheasants so enraged a sportsman that he ordered his loader to bowl over the old sinner of a fox. Should a fox show himself during the beating of a wood, it would be wise to give him every chance to escape. What usually happens is that the beaters force him forward with sticks and curses, and the guns drive him back with cries of "Tally-ho!"
But the fox's appearance is disconcerting; and there is a touch of irony in the thought that a crafty old fox, who in his time has slain more than his share of pheasants, should yet be in at the death of those that escaped him.
Pheasants that go to Ground
The careful gamekeeper will stop all the rabbit-holes round about the place where he hopes that many pheasants will fall—perhaps for fifty yards before and behind the stands of the sportsmen. Many a pheasant is lost through going to ground in a rabbit-burrow, and there is seldom a spade and a grub-axe at hand. The pheasant may be winged or otherwise wounded, and if it cannot be dug out may die a lingering death. But many a crafty old cock has revealed his hiding-place because, while he has taken the precaution of drawing his body into a burrow, he has forgotten his tail. Only one partridge, in our experience, has run to ground after being winged.
Pheasants' Doomsday
A wise pheasant would go abroad before the middle of November. He would leave the fallen beech-mast for the pigeons, and turn a deaf ear to the persuasive whistling of the maize-laden keeper. Since the issue of his death-warrant on October 1, the pheasant has fared well—he has never known the want of a hearty breakfast. But sooner or later comes a morning when he must breakfast on the remnants of a last good supper. If he wonders why, he never thinks he has been denied his food because a big breakfast is not good to fly on, because a full crop will lessen his value in the eyes of the game-dealer, and because it is intended that he shall fly high, and give a sporting shot. So he is kept short, like a pig whose time has come to be made into pork. But no doubt even his short life has been worth the living.
The Hungry Retriever
We have a story of a retriever who was forced to forego breakfast on the morning of a shoot. Retrievers, as they grow old, often grow cunning, and we saw this one getting the better of his master in a novel and drastic way. The old dog had grown fat, and somebody complained that he was inclined to be lazy in his work. It was decided that he had too much to eat, and it was to improve his activity during a day's partridge driving that his master kept him without breakfast, usually a heavy meal. There was a cold partridge that came within range of the dog's nose—but his longings were not gratified. Out in the fields the dog was sent for the first bird his master shot, a runner. Away went the dog with unusual speed; he picked up the bird, and then quietly sat down and made a meal of it. Having had his breakfast, he did his work handsomely for the rest of the day.
The Old Wood
The first covert shoot has a peculiar charm for the sportsman—especially when the shoot is in familiar woods. There has grown a feeling of friendship for the old rides and trees, and they seem to offer a warmer welcome every year. He comes to the historic corner where he failed miserably to do justice to a rush of pheasants. Here is the opening through which his first woodcock tried to glide—in vain. He remembers, perhaps, that even now he has that woodcock's two pen-feathers in the depths of some ancient purse. Here was where he scored a double at partridges hurtling through the tree-tops—only to be beaten a moment later by a hare, slowly cantering. Nothing has changed in the woods. They wear the same old look of nakedness; save for a hurrying pigeon, there is the same desolate lifelessness. Nothing stirs, but the leaf fluttering to earth; all is dead quiet. Then in the distance is heard the prelude of the beaters' sticks—tap, tap, tapping. The sportsman dreams, musing of past days and their great deeds. Then a lithe moving form catches his eye—a hare has slipped out of sight. A shot rings out, echoes and re-echoes; another, and doubles, and clusters of shots. The old wood is the old wood still.
Memories of Muzzle-loaders
Perhaps not many shooting men remember much about the old days of the muzzle-loader, or could recall all the items of the paraphernalia necessary for a fair day's sport. In spite of their drawbacks, wonderful feats were performed by the old guns; and certainly there was a truer ring about the word sport in the good old times. A fancy-dress shooting party, with the sportsmen in the old-time shooting-suits, armed with muzzle-loaders, would be entertaining—if dangerous. How many members of the party would arrive on the scene of action with all the appliances necessary for the firing of a fowling-piece—powder, shot, wads, and caps? And who would know how to load his weapon, even with powder, shot, wads, and caps at hand? The man who did not know how to load would be in a bad way, for, of course, no valets could be allowed on the scene, even supposing they might know more than their masters. Short-tempered men would be exploding perpetually in wrath at the delays caused by the process of loading, while birds were rising and going away—we have heard powerful language addressed even to the modern weapon when it has been responsible for a hitch in shooting. It is shocking even to think of what a short-tempered man might say if he flung away an open box full of copper caps in mistake for an empty case, or if he applied his powder-flask to his lips and swallowed a few drachms of treble strong black powder instead of a few drops of sloe-gin. No doubt some of the party would suffer the misfortune of upsetting their whole supply of shot for the day's sport. Then the short-tempered man sooner or later would break his ramrod—others would shoot ramrods, like arrows, into the air. At the end of the day there would be headaches and black-and-blue shoulders. And what would be the bag?
Relics of the Great Days
The old-time gunner went out in the morning with all manner of contrivances and implements stowed about his person. He wore a shot-belt for distributing the weight of his lead, he carried neat little magazines, so that he might the more easily handle his copper percussion-caps, and he wore a wallet of leather containing such tools as a nipple-wrench and spare parts—the nipples in the gun might break or blow out. The careful man carried a wad-punch, and in emergency would punch wads for his muzzle-loader out of his felt hat or his neighbour's—what could be a more neighbourly act than to sacrifice a pair of leather gaiters in the cause of wads? A keeper friend treasures many relics of the great days of the old squire—among them a curious little mirror, the glass about the size of your little-finger nail, set at the top of a tiny brass box, small enough to slip into the barrel of a twenty-bore. The old squire would draw this mirror from his waistcoat pocket before the first charge was poured into the muzzle of his gun, dropping it glass upwards down each barrel in turn, so that he could see by the reflected light if they were well cleaned and polished.
Cleaning a Muzzle-loader
The cleaning of a muzzle-loader was an immense undertaking. First, the barrels were removed from the stocks, then bucketfuls of hot water were forced through them; out would pour a stream of black, liquid filth, having no respect for clothes or person, and smelling abominably. Heated water was used because it cleaned away all the foulness of the black powder, and quickly dried off. After washing, the barrels were fixed in vices carefully padded to prevent injury, and then they were given a hearty polishing inside with a tow-topped rod. Great attention was paid to the locks, which were not so well protected from water as they are to-day—they were removed every now and then, and taken apart by means of a neat little clamp for holding the mainspring. In those days people spoke of how many pounds of shot they had fired—not of how many cartridges. The old-time bags were not to be despised. One keeper, who has been in his present place for forty odd years, told us that he can always remember his last day's shooting with muzzle-loaders, because they bagged the same number of hares as pheasants—218—to say nothing of 324 rabbits. They must have performed some wonderful feats of loading as well as shooting.
The Knowing Beater
At covert shoots beaters often behave in unaccountable ways; but it is not every day a beater is seen crawling about on hands and knees. A guest at a covert shoot, surprised at such a sight, inquired about the beater's object. "Beg pardon, sir; I thought as 'ow you was the guv'ner," said the beater, rising. A further question as to why the guv'ner should be met on all fours brought this answer: "Well, you see, sir, 'tis this way like—the guv'ner, 'e don't allow no game to git up 'igh, not if 'e can anyways 'elp it. Not 'e, for 'e wops it into any birds as rises 'ardly afore they be got on their wings like. So you see, sir, soon as I thinks I be gittin' dangerous near 'im, I allus reckons to be a bit careful."
Old Friends
The shepherd and the gamekeeper are men in sympathy, for one is dependent to some extent on the other. In the eyes of the keeper, the shepherd is one of the most important persons on a farm. And where there is not a good understanding between the two men the keeper will suffer loss in game, and the shepherd not only in sheep, but in rabbits. With rabbits to spare, the keeper's first thought is of his friend the shepherd. The shepherd is vigilant by night as well as by day, and may watch the interests of game without detriment to his own charge. And it is a pleasure to the keeper to run his eye over the fold when he passes that way to see if all is well. He comes to the rescue of many a sheep on its back that would have remained on its back until dead without his timely aid; and he saves the shepherd many possible disasters through the flock breaking from the fold, when the sheep might come to destruction by over-feeding on green-stuffs. Through the long nights of the lambing-time the keeper may give the shepherd his company over pipes of fragrant shag, and pots of heart-cheering ale—hands, hearts, and ale alike made warm by the little stove in the shepherd's movable house on wheels. Look well at a shepherd's back, and you are likely to see a keeper's old coat.
What Shepherds enjoy
Shepherds like their pot of beer—and some of them are wondrously fond of a fight, and so may become useful allies to the keeper when poachers are to be dealt with. We knew a shepherd who would always be especially retained to help the keepers of an estate at times when pheasants were liable to be shot at night. His appointment came about in this way: the head keeper, during the absence of an assistant, had employed the shepherd to watch, and had dosed him with half a gallon of beer to keep the cold out before sending him off on duty. The beer and the night air were not without effect; and when presently a human form came stealthily along in the shadow of a moon-lit ride, the shepherd was in grand fighting trim and spirit. He waited his chance, then sprang like a lion on the intruder, gripped his throat, bore him to the earth, and belaboured him in hearty fashion. He was about to tie him hand and foot when he saw that he was tackling his own master from the mansion, who, having been dining with a neighbour, had chosen to walk home by way of his woods. So impressed was the master with the shepherd's valour on behalf of his pheasants that he gave him a sovereign, and retained him on the night staff at five shillings a night—and half a gallon of beer.
Lives of Labour
Like most country workers, shepherds and gamekeepers may go through a long life of labour without ever taking a holiday, possibly without thinking of one. We hear of eight-hour days for factory workers and discussions of an ideal work-day of six or even of four hours; but seldom a word is spoken for those country labourers, the length of whose toil is limited only by daylight—when it is not carried on as a matter of course into the night. Farm hands may work through all the days of the year; for where there is stock to be fed work is never-ceasing. Yet it is reasonable to suppose that holidays are as needful to the countryman as to the townsman, and that if the farm labourer or the shepherd were sent away to the sea every year for a fortnight's rest and change, he would work with a new energy that would more than compensate for the work lost. It would be something at least to break the deadly monotony of the daily round, even if the labourer had no ideas for profitably spending a holiday.
In the Folds
For the shepherd the days and nights of January are heavy with responsibility—he counts himself lucky if he can find time for an hour's sleep. It is wonderful how the shepherd of a large flock knows all the ewes and the lambs over which he now watches. In his lambs he has a personal interest, for there may be a sixpence in his purse for each lamb that lives to be deprived of its tail. The shepherd's knowledge of the lambs surpasses that of the ewes, whom sometimes he deceives; for it is by scent rather than sight that the mother recognises her offspring, while the shepherd believes only what he sees. By fastening the skin of a dead lamb on to an orphan he will induce a bereaved ewe to adopt the orphan, and she will accept, guard, and love it as if it were her own.
Shepherds' Care
January is to the shepherd what June is to the gamekeeper. There is more than common meaning to the shepherd in the greeting, "A happy and a prosperous New Year." Be luck good or bad, the bleat of the lamb is the sweetest sound of the year to shepherd ears: it means as much as the pee-peep of the pheasant chick to the gamekeeper. Keepers and shepherds are deeply attached to their respective "coops"—a word used by the shepherd for the enclosures, one hurdle square, made for the lambs. The experience of coop life is briefer for the lamb than for the young pheasant. After enjoying a few hours of privacy, the ewe and her lambs are turned into the large general nursery, to fend for themselves among the baa-ing crowd.
Winter Partridge-driving
Weather makes more difference to partridge-driving than to most forms of shooting. The ideal day comes when the weather is mild, and the air still. Then only can the movements of partridges be controlled with some certainty—not that partridges ever can be driven against their will. In high wind their speed is tremendous, and a hundred birds do not give the chances of ten too tired to swerve. In hard, frosty weather, when the fields are like rough paving-stones, though the day is still, the birds are up and off before the advancing driving-line can shape itself to influence their flight. But in mild, still weather, the soft soil clogs the birds' feet, they are slow to rise, and packs and coveys become split up and their ranks disorganised—to the advantage of the sportsmen.
A mild day may open hopefully enough, but if driving rain comes with blustering wind the sport is spoiled.
On a frosty day, when things have been going badly, the guns may be congratulating themselves as they reach some big turnip-fields for which the birds have been making. A turnip-field may be expected to steady and control the departure and the direction of birds; but in the grip of frost turnips are only a little better than the bare, frozen field. For the leaves, that yesterday made luxuriant cover, to-day are flattened to the ground by the frost. Even the charlock, which may have done so much to make up for the thinness of the turnips, has been shrivelled to a few brown stems. Why the farmer leaves the late-grown charlock untouched is because he knows that before it reaches seed-time the frost will have killed every plant. On a small shoot, frost-flattened turnips may ruin the hope of a full day's partridge-driving. On big shoots frost counts for less, for long drives can be taken. Short drives in winter partridge-driving are seldom profitable—whether a shoot be small or big.
LONDON, EDWARD ARNOLD.
The Fear of Snow
By the very poor snow is regarded as among the most terrible calamities of life. Many types of countrymen, rural publicans, postmen, outdoor labourers, and small traders, speak of snow as the worst of all possible weather, leaving the most serious after-effects. And snow means calamity to many wild things. Lucky are the robins of a garden who have a friend to stir the old hot-bed, and turn up the worms from beneath the frozen top-soil; happy the grain-feeding birds who find a rick that has been threshed. Thousands flock to the corn-ricks, and there is food for all—pheasants, partridges, rooks, jackdaws, starlings, sparrows, greenfinches, chaffinches, yellow-hammers, and the bramble-finches, orange, white, and black in plumage. To the holly-trees come the starving thrushes, and in hard weather even the fieldfares will lose their extreme shyness to besiege a holly-tree beside a door. The more delicate redwings die in thousands, though the dying and dead are seldom seen.
To a few the snow means profit—for the hawks there is a carnival of feasting, and the fox finds weak and hungry hares and rabbits an easy prey, if ill-nourished on a diet of tree-bark and withered herbage. As to the pheasants, they are well cared for—and the keeper, in snowy weather, scatters his maize with a liberal hand.
Hard-Weather Prophets
By many signs wild creatures inform the gamekeeper of the approach of hard weather. The wood-pigeons give him useful warning. In most parts of the country flocks of pigeons take toll of the greens and root-crops—a thousand pigeons may be seen rising from a single field of roots. In mild weather they may return once or twice during a day. When they are seen constantly streaming to the root-fields, those disturbed returning again and again, it is a certain sign that hard weather is near.
Weather-wise Beasts and Birds
Animals have a reputation as weather prophets—if their prophecies strike the human observer as somewhat obvious. The cat washes her face, and this is commonly held to be a sign of coming rain; in summer it is thought to be a sign of a thunder-storm when cats are remarkably lively. Dogs sometimes bury their bones when rain is in the air—perhaps an inherited instinct to save food against days of bad hunting. Horses by stretching their necks and sniffing the air seem to be scenting distant rain; and donkeys have a way of braying before the storm. Shepherds hold that if sheep turn their tails windward rain will come; and cowherds read the same prophecy when a herd of cows gathers at one end of a pasture, their tails to the wind. Changes in weather mean much to wild life, and we are prepared to believe they are forewarned. A storm may mean the loss of a meal to a fox, a ruined nest to a bird, an end of all things to an insect. The fox has done well that has eaten heartily before the storm. Yet it appears that a change of weather must be near at hand before wild creatures take notice. The pheasant crows before the thunder-storm because he hears distant thunder. The wheatear, a bird nervous of clouds, flies to shelter as the cloud drives up. It is the first touch of cold weather that sets squirrels hiding nuts.
Weather has a marked effect on the moods of wild creatures. There are days when hares or partridges seem overcome by oppression; they move listlessly if disturbed, and lie or sit about as though all energy had gone from them. Thunder in the air may be the cause, or perhaps snow is coming; when the storm has blown over, liveliness is restored, and new life inspires all things. Before a storm, partridges in the stubble-fields set up their feathers, and in cold weather the feathers of many birds have the appearance of being puffed out, so that they look almost twice their usual size. Many creatures feed at an unusually early hour if storms are coming. It is a bad sign when rabbits are out feeding in the fields early on a bright sunshiny afternoon. The birds of the open fields—rooks, starlings, pigeons, or fieldfares—feed hungrily and hastily while rain-clouds overshadow the sky; but it is a sign of good weather when rooks fly to feed far from their roosting-trees, and fly high. Cock pheasants will go to roost early before the storm, choosing low branches, and trees that afford good protection. In bitter weather, even the warm feathers of birds may become ice-bound.
Green Winters
Between a green and a white winter in England there is a world of difference to wild creatures. There may come day upon day, week upon week, of mist, rain, fog, and blustering winds, of hail, sleet, and furious snow-blizzards—to birds and beasts these are days of prosperity and fatness. Peewits, snipe, woodcock, blackbirds, and thrushes then find food far more plentiful than in the hot dusty days of late summer. Often, in late summer, their breasts are narrowed by leanness to the shape of a boat's keel. But in moist, warm winter days the flesh rises roundly as if it would burst the skin—the breast-bone, no longer up-standing like a bare ridge, is buried almost out of sight in a valley of fat, on the thighs are little hillocks of fat, and the bones of the back cannot be seen or felt for their thick warm covering. But should there come two or three days of frost, which hold through the day and increase their grip on the land by night, then this loaded store of fat vanishes as mist before the sun.
What Rainy Days bring
A mild open autumn and a green winter also mean much to the farmers and to the gamekeepers; a blessing on many accounts, a curse on others. The farmer groans because his land is so wet and heavy that he cannot sow his winter seeds; the keeper sees the ruination of many a promising day's sport. The keeper gains when there are no frost and snow by having the pleasure of showing bills for corn reduced to a minimum—in a mild winter he will not need half the amount of corn that must be distributed to his birds in hard weather, when they are actually in need of food. What little he gives them in open weather is to keep them together, as natural food is abundant. But a low bill for corn hardly compensates the keeper for rain-spoiled sport, or for day after day of outdoor work in the wet. The work cannot be done in a way to satisfy the keeper—or possibly others. And the rain means that he falls behind with that everlasting tax on his time entailed by keeping rabbits within bounds. After a mild, open winter, by the time the game-shooting season is ended, and coverts are available for rabbit-killing, young rabbits have already made their appearance. The keeper welcomes a short spell of really hard weather in February, so that he may the more easily catch up all the pheasants he needs for penning. Otherwise the kind of winter that best suits him is a dry one—without hard frost.
Cubs at Christmas
We met a gamekeeper who had been blessed with a litter of fox cubs born about the middle of December—just before the usual mating-time of the foxes. When most of the season's cubs would be born these Christmas cubs would be three months old, and well grounded in the elements of a fox's education. And when the pheasants and partridges began to sit they could save their mother a deal of laborious work—as our friend the keeper found out. In cub-hunting days, there must have been some rude shocks for the puppies of the pack, and even the old stagers of hounds must have been taken aback when they came to close quarters with one of these forward cubs. The keeper caught one, and by a strange chance. He had been expecting a visit from hounds. He knew an earth where he thought that possibly a vixen later on might have a family; not willing to disturb the place by spade-work when stopping it, he stuffed the entrance with sacks. Hounds came and went—and afterwards the keeper visited the earth to recover his sacks. What was his surprise when he found that inside one of the sacks a cub had curled itself comfortably for sleep. Well knowing that if he were to say there was a litter of cubs on his ground at Christmas none would believe him, he put the cub into a capacious pocket. Then when he told the story of his early litter, and was laughed at for his pains, he confounded sceptics by drawing the little fox, alive and uninjured, from his coat-tails.
Work for Rainy Days
The keeper always has a supply of odd jobs on hand to occupy his time on a soaking wet day, or when a snow-storm rages. He has always plenty to do—but much of his work cannot be done properly in bad weather, and to work out of doors on a wet day may be as much a waste of time as to work indoors on a fine day on matters of no moment. It would be foolish to go ferreting in heavy rain—nets become soaked, rabbits will not bolt, and digging for ferrets in soft mud is heart-breaking work; at the end of the day, while there may be a few rabbits that look as if they have been bathing in mud, there is all the tackle to be dried for the next day. Then again, it would be sheer waste of time to stop rabbit-burrows when snow has freshly fallen, for half the holes would be hidden, and the work would have to be done over again. It pays to wait until the next day, when rabbits have been out to feed and the holes are seen easily.
When he decides to stay under cover the keeper hardly knows where to begin, as he looks about his store-houses and sheds. Here are traps that should be cleaned and overhauled, broken chains to be mended, bent parts to be carefully straightened—a little judicious filing and a drop of oil are needed here and there to make all parts work together smoothly and swiftly. Snares must be overhauled and sorted, the sound ones to be neatly shaped so that the noose stays open ready for use, and each one must be fitted with its string, tealer, and plug. A supply of new snares may be made. Plugs and pegs may be shaped, for holding snares and traps, from a length of solid ash which the keeper knows to be well seasoned, so that it will not crack when he drives it into stony ground with his heavy, steel-shod heel. For months he has treasured that piece of ash—and terrible was the vengeance that he vowed on his wife when she dared to hint that it would serve nicely for her copper fire.
The Old Lumber
The wet day brings the chance for doing various little carpentering jobs, long neglected. The keeper may have set himself the task of making a new hand-barrow before the coming of another pheasant-rearing time—a barrow for carrying the coops, two at a time, with the hen and precious chicks within, where a horse and cart cannot pass through the coverts. Perhaps he remembers a day when the crazy handle of the old barrow snapped off and upset two coops of his best birds. Then a wet day is a good day for sorting coops, and putting apart for professional treatment those beyond the keeper's makeshift craft. He can set about painting the whole ones. Now and again he must look to his ferret-hutches, and fit new wire-netting to the fronts if any meshes are rotten with rust—should the ferrets escape there is no telling what may happen. And guns are never the worse for an extra special examination, and a thorough cleaning and oiling. An all-round tidying-up of his varied assortment of tackle certainly makes for a temporary improvement in the look of his work-places—but, as it has been with every clearance, the same old lumber is once more reprieved. "You see," says the keeper, "it might come in useful some time."
When Foxes mate
Soon after Christmas the gamekeeper hears the barking of foxes at night, and he well knows the reason. The foxes are searching for mates. And here is one of many reasons why hounds in these days fail to find foxes in woods never hitherto drawn blank. Hunting and shooting have disturbed the quiet of the coverts, the underwood harvest is going forward, the supply of fox-food is shorter than at any other time, and is most hard to catch; so foxes generally have forsaken their haunts, finding lodging in out-of-the-way places which offer some chance of peace and quietness. Followers of hounds have much to learn about the ways of the fox in January. They go from one blank covert to another, cheerfully riding an intervening couple of miles, while all the time the fox is lurking in a dell or a hedgerow only two hundred yards from the first covert drawn. Yet a suggestion that the dell or the hedgerow should be tried meets with silent scorn. This might be expected from people who hunt to ride, or people new to the hunting-field; but it does not become the experienced to pin all their faith to the well-known coverts. In a southern county hounds have disturbed no fewer than twelve foxes together—probably a collection of suitors for the pad of one or two eligible vixens.
A Keeper's Dreams
On a Sunday after Christmas we paid a visit to an old keeper, who, on his own confession, had not dined wisely on the good fare provided by his wife on Christmas Day. Into our sympathetic ears he poured the strangest tale of the dreams that he had dreamed. The first began pleasantly enough, but ended in a nightmare. He was one of a party shooting in his best wood, and he was ever in the hottest part of the hottest corner, but each time he threw up his gun to shoot the crowds of pheasants, the gun fell all in pieces. Never, he said, had he known such a nightmare; though some of the other dreams that succeeded were bad enough.
One was to the effect that on an important occasion all the birds of his coverts utterly refused to rise and rocket, and when he pressed them with beaters he found that one and all had turned into foxes. This dream merged into one in which the foxes in his preserves were so numerous that they outnumbered and overpowered the hounds, and then attacked the Master, who was eaten. And there was a dream in which the old keeper found that he had changed places with his employer, whom he roundly abused for the mistakes he made in placing stops and managing the beaters. The climax of this was the unkindest cut of all. The gamekeeper dreamt that his employer, far from bearing him any ill-will for the abuse, sent to his cottage on Christmas Eve a large tin of tobacco, beneath the lid of which was a ten-pound note. This worthy old man has had many queer dreams in his time—if we are to believe him. He is ready to confess, for the sake of the story following the confession, that he has never really mastered the art of shooting driven partridges. But one night he dreamt that he had brought off the most masterly right and left, and from far and near congratulations on his brace poured upon him. Then he awoke to find himself in his own familiar chair by the fireside, in the chill dawn of a winter morning, and the local doctor, who was also a sportsman, was telling him how there had arrived safely in the room upstairs a brace of fine young keepers.
A Death-bed Vision
We can vouch for the truth of this fox story: An old keeper—the keeper of a shoot where partridges were preferred to foxes—lay dying. It was late in May, when the partridges were beginning to sit. Suddenly he called for his two sons and told them of a dream. In a certain burrow in a certain wood adjoining his partridge fields he had dreamt of a litter of cubs. And he refused to be comforted until his sons had gone forth to verify his dream. In due time they came home with enough evidence that the dream was of true things to allow the old man to give up the ghost with an untroubled mind.
Christmas Sport
The partridge at Christmas is at his best—as a test of reputations. In this respect there is a world of difference between the slow, simple yellow-legged bird of September and the partridge of December. To bag a brace from a September covey is satisfactory to a sportsman. To get a bird with each barrel at an October drive is no mean thing. But to bring off a double event at Christmas partridges is to make a reputation. And it is to experience a feeling of goodwill towards the whole world. For Christmas and cold hands excuse a multitude of misses.
The birds whirl over the line of guns like brown clusters of bullets. And if the sportsman is tested, the gamekeeper's reputation hangs also in the balance; his highest art is called for if he is to drive birds in the desired direction. Whether or not his birds have been much harassed by previous driving makes a difference to his chances. Success will be appreciated, for sportsmen keenly relish a selected partridge drive as a foretaste to a pheasant shoot. When the drive is over and the pheasants' turn has come, they feel in slightly faster but certainly smoother water.