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A SHOT AT THE WILD DUCKS.

“ It is splendid weather for the wild ducks to-night. I only hope the wind may not get up before morning. It is very remarkable, but on a windy morning the ducks never come in any number to my pond,” said the Squire, as he looked out of the hall- door of his hospitable mansion, a few days after our visit to the decoy. “ I shall be sure to call you all very early, so mind you unbutton your eyes pretty quick: ” so we lighted our candles, and away we went up stairs. Some time before five o’clock next morning, the alarm went off with a ring, ring, ring. I looked for a boot to throw at it, which effort woke me at once; and, jumping up, I looked out of the window. It was as dark as pitch no wind and no moon. So far all was favourable. On going down-stairs I found the Squire crouched over a log of wood, which was burning splendidly. He was most

fire over nighttriumphant—his plan for banking up the having turned out to be perfectly successful: he was busily engaged boiling a caldron of milk for breakfast. “ Quite right, my friend,” said I; “I recollect Sir Benjamin Brodie saying to me when first beginning the

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noble science of practical surgery, 4 Whatever yon do, my lad, never go out without breakfast of some sort and the best thing is milk.’ ” And so, too, one finds the old soldier generally getting “ something to lean his back against all day ” before he goes out in the morning.

Then our party came down one by one, the guns were produced from their cases, the leather pouches

containing the cartridges for the breech-loaders taken down, and we were ready to start. A nice lot we looked, just like a gang of conspirators about to enact some horrible midnight tragedy, wrapped up, as we all were, in heterogeneous costumes, to face the cold air. The ponderous bolt of the hall-door shot back with a loud click, and we were in the open air. “ What is that?” said my friend, the Rev. C. Wolley, of Eton College, who formed one of our party. “ Tu whit—-tu whoo; tu whit—tu whoo. I know the cry well; it is an owl. Listen.”

“It is an owl,” said the Squire; “I don’t allow the keepers to shoot them; they do more good than harm, and that fellow lives in an old tree somewhere up by the ‘corner oak.’ But, Buckland, you made a mistake about my oaks; they are very much older than Henry VIII.; it is much more likely they date from about the time of the least, my predecessor, Mr. Conquest—at Congreve, who was very learned about Oaks, was of that opinion,” k 2

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“ By Jove, how terribly dark it is!” I exclaimed, as I ran bang against the iron park-railings. “ Where the deuce is the gate?” “Here it is,” said the Squire. “Now, I’ll light a cigar and lead the way. Hark! there is the owl

again.” “Oh, no,” Mr. Wolley said, “it is—” We all listened. “ Cock-a-doodle-do.” “ It’s only old Chanticleer in the farm-yard,” said the Squire; “ but we are out after ducks, not owls—so come along.” We formed single file, and away we went across the park. Here the shadow of the trees and the deep gloom of the heather made the darkness doubly dark and unless we followed the cigar light we invariably came to grief in furze, fern brakes, or ditches.

“What a pace you are going, Squire!” said I. “I don’t feel half so cold as I did at starting.” “ Never mind,” said he, “ we must get along.” “ This fun reminds me,” said I, “ of the midnight expedition of the Grecian princes, Diomed and Ulysses and nice fellows they were for princes, to go out at the middle of the night horse stealing, and drive off the four greys of Bhesus with the string of an unbent bow,* for

Ulysses now the snowy steeds detains,

And leads them fastened by the silver reins;

These, with his bow unbent, he lashed along

The scourge forgot, on Rhesus’ chariot hung.

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he left the whip in the chariot, in the middle of the night. Do you not recollect what Diomed said when Ulysses was going ahead too fast?

But let us haste, night rolls the hours away,

The redd’ning orient shows the coming day,

The stars shine fainter on th’ ethereal plains,

And of Night’s empire but a third remains.

So off we went down the long walk. Where is the turning? Oh! I can feel the rail round the young oak is too dark to see it; and now I feel gravel under my—it feet. All right; right wheel, go ahead. Along through the dark furze brake, and down the hill. Ah! there’s the pond, and no light yet; we are in plenty of time. “ Mind the plank over the stream,” said the Squire, “ I will lead the way. Look out, here is another terrible plank.” Splash! “ Who’s that gone in? ” “ All right,” said a voice behind. “ Confound your planks, Squire, I wish you would make them wider but I have only one foot wet.” Flop, flop, flop, hi-r-r-r. u There now, you see what you have done! ” said the Squire; “ a lot of ducks have heard us, and are gone from the pond. Now silence, if you please, gentlemen and put out your smoke. Here, Buckland, you get into the dry ditch with Mr. Wolley and Mr. D; I will stay here, and H will go to the head of the big pond.”

So we crawled down into the ditch, and coiled ourselves up in the dead leaves and ferns like so many

hedgehogs. The darkness was most oppressive, the silence almost awful. At last, in the far distance, a loud half-cry, half-sound, something like a railway engine blowing her steam off.

“Good gracious! what on earth is that?”

“It is the poachers going home,” whispered Mr. Wolley.

“All right,” I said; “it is no poachers, it is the cow-boys and the labouring lads going out to work; they always signal to each other in this manner before sunrise, but it is a curious custom.”

Silence again. I will have a look over the pond with my race-glasses. They tell me they are capital for night-work. No, there is nothing there; the water is as still as a looking-glass. “Hiss, hiss, hiss! errh-errh!”

“Hark at Master Screech-owl,” said my companion in the ditch; “he knows we are after no good. He is somewhere up the pine trees close behind us.”

“What on earth is that new and curious noise? I never heard that before,” said I. Mr. Wolley whispered in my ear these words:—

Τοῖσι δὲ δεξιὸν ἧκεν ἐρωδιὸν ἐγγὺς ὁδοῖο Παλλὰς Ἀθηναίη. τοὶ δ’ οὐκ ἴδον ὀφθαλμοῖσι Νύκτα δι’ ὀρφναίην, ἀλλὰ κλάγξαντος ἄκουσαν.*

Just then in sign she favoured their intent, A long-winged heron great Minerva sent; This, though surrounding shades obscured their view, By the shrill clang and whistling wings they knew.

Iliad, x. 274–6.

A heron, is it? What a fellow that Homer is!—what a splendid description of what we have just heard 1 I wonder if Homer ever went wild-duck shooting. Anyhow, it is a good omen. A cigar-light is struck in the distance. “ What’s that?” “ Oh, it’s the Squire, just to remind us of his position, and a hint as well to keep quiet.” “ What’s the time?” “ Fifteen minutes to seven,” said I; “ you see, it’s

getting a little light.” How very gradually the light comes on. What a lovely scene! The folks talk of scenes at theatres what can beat this, even though our opera box is a damp

ditch? “ The ducks will be here in five minutes,” said Mr.

Wolley, “so look out.” The words were hardly spoken, when a rustling as of ladies’ silk dresses came directly over our heads.

Splash, splash I in the further pond. That’s the first lot anyhow. Three dark forms suddenly come over the trees on the right, and splash down into our pond they

go. “ Can you see them, Buckland, with the glasses? ” “ Yes, there they are, just in front of the weeds! ”

Bang, bang 1 from the other end of the pond. “ The ball is opened then,” said Mr. D, “then I begin also—here goes 1”—Bang, bang

a!!

:136 GIVING THEM “ TOKO.

“ All right, he is a croaker,” said I; “I can see him through the glasses kicking and twisting about.”

There come the ducks again— eight this time. Oh, hang it! they are gone to the lower pond—bang is to say, someThey go away again like the wind—that of them—for the Squire has given them toko and a warm welcome. u Look out! over your head! quick! Here he •comes—a single fellow from the last lot.”—Bang That’s a capital shot.

Aeria vitam sub nube relinquens

Sternitur, exanimisque tremens procumbit humi—dufik;

Et resonant penitus eoncusso in viscere glandes.*

He falls with a heavy thud right into our ditch. I grab him in an instant. Poor beast, how he bleeds! wring his neck and put him out of his misery.

Oh, bother! how light it’s getting. “ Who can that be blowing that horn?” u Oh, that’s the postman; it’s past seven. Quick! the ducks will begin to come again directly.” A rush over our heads like the first gust of a coming high wind. Some eight or ten more birds come over. it’s no use, they will go toUp go the guns—too high; the lower pond. Immediately, bang, bang, bang!—

So leaving his life in the clouds high up,

He fell to the ground with a mighty wop:

And the acorns rattled within his crop.

regular feu de joie, at the lower pond. But who the deuce can the third gun be? for only the Squire and

it’s our turn. Teal, for a thousand! by their flight. In our pond this time. Bang, bang, bang! Ah, capital! only one of the lot gone, and he a pensioner. Never mind; the watchers on the hill-top will mark him, and we shall get him as we g© home. There

they are! Down come four widgeon on again—quick the pond. They just have time to touch the water ! Too late, my friendswith their feet, when—bang you should have seen us before; two of your party are left behind. Ah! you may well fly your fastest; you have had a narrow escape. Spatter, spatter! hot coals in the ashes. Never mind; it’s only the shot falling into the water -from the Squire’s last shot. Thank goodness, there is no ice, or the shot would bound with a ricochet along, and would not even know where to stop. The birds have not done coming yet, I declare; down with you, out of sight: here comes a famous lot singing “ ping, ping, ping ” with their wings. Stupid brutes! cannot you see what has been going on since you have been away? do not you see your relations and friends all over the pond dead and dying? No, you won’t be told; then take that. He is down! yes! no! yes! Mark the place. Crack, crack! goes the strange gun. Down fall a couple. The poor things

are bewildered. Here they come again over us. No; it’s no use: away they twist and turn like an eel coming down stream to get out of the way of a post. But they have their revenge. They have sent out their sentry; look at him high in the air, trumpeting querk, querk; round and round he goes, to warn his friends who are coming home “ with the milk in the morning ” that their home has been disturbed, and that enemies are ensconced behind every bush.

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