Lunch (continued).
How well I remember a certain day in the by-gone years, when for the first time a great truth suddenly burst upon me in all its glory. The morning's sport had been unsuccessful. We were all fairly tired, and some of us, in spite of the moderate temperature, were perspiring freely. For we had been walking up late partridges most of the morning, with just an occasional shot here and there at pheasants in covert. Now, late partridges are perhaps the least amenable of created things. They cherish a perfectly ridiculous conviction that nature, in endowing them with life, intended that they should preserve it, and consequently they hold it to be their one aim and object to fly, whirring and cheeping, out of sight, long before even an enthusiastic shot could have a chance of proving to them how beautifully a bird can be missed. For some reason or other, our host had refused or had been unable to drive the birds. One result was that we had tramped and tramped and tramped, getting only rare shots, and doing but little execution. Another result was, that the place was simply littered with lost tempers, and we sat down to lunch very much out of conceit with ourselves, our guns, our cartridges, the keepers, the dogs, and everything else. The pleasant array of plates and glasses, and the savoury odours of the meats mitigated, but did not dispel the frowns. Then suddenly there dropped down amongst us, as it were from the sky, the Great Woodcock Saga. In a moment the events of the morning were forgotten, brows cleared, tempers were picked up, and an eager hilarity reigned over the company, while the adventures of the wonderful bird were pursued from tree to tree, from clump to clump, through all the zig-zags of his marvellous flight, until he finally vanished triumphantly into the unknown.
Now the Great Woodcock Saga is brought about in this way:—First of all suppose that a woodcock has shown himself somewhere or other during the morning. If he was seen it follows, as the day follows the night, (1), that everybody shot at him at the most fantastic distances without regard to the lives and limbs of the rest of the party; (2), that (in most cases) everybody missed him; (3), that everybody, though having, according to his own version, been especially careful himself, has been placed in imminent peril by the recklessness of the rest; (4), that everybody threw himself flat on his face to avoid death; and (5), that the woodcock is not really a bird at all, but a devil. The following is suggested as an example of Woodcock-dialogue, the scene being laid at lunch:—
First Sportsman (pausing in his attack on a plateful of curried rabbit). By Jupiter! that was a smartish woodcock. I never saw the beggar till he all but flew into my face, and then away he went, like a streak of greased lightning. I let him have both barrels; but I might as well have shot at a gnat. Still, I fancy I tickled him up with my left.
Second Sportsman (a stout, jovial man, breaking in). Tickled him up! By gum, I thought I was going to be tickled up, I tell you. Shot was flying all round me—bang! bang! all over the place. I loosed off twice at him, and then went down, to avoid punishment. Haven't a notion what became of him.
Third Sportsman (choking with laughter at the recollection). I saw you go down, old cock. First go off, I thought you were hit: but, when you got that old face of yours up, and began to holler "Wor guns!" as if you meant to bust, why I jolly soon knew there wasn't much the matter with you. Just look at him, you chaps. Do you think an ordinary charge of shot would go through that? Not likely.
Fourth Sportsman (military man). Gad, it was awful! I'd rather be bucketed about by EVELYN WOOD for a week than face another woodcock. I heard 'em shoutin', "Woodcock forward! Woodcock back! Woodcock to the right! Woodcock to the left! Mark—mark!" Gad! thinks I to myself, the bally place must be full of 'em. Just then out he came, as sly as be blowed. My old bundook went off of its own accord. I bagged the best part of an oak tree, and, after that, I scooted. Things were gettin' just a shade too warm, by gad! A reg'lar hail-storm, that's what it was. No, thank you, thinks I; not for this party—I'm off to cover. So that's all I know about it. Thanks, TOMMY—do you mind handin' round that beer-jug?
First Sportsman (rallying him). Just think of that. And we're all of us taxed to keep a chap like that in comfort. Why you're paid to be shot at—that's what you're there for, you and your thin red line, and all that. By Jupiter! we don't get our money's worth out of you if you're going to cut and run before a poor, weak, harmless woodcock.
[Military Sportsman is heavily chaffed.
Military Sportsman. Oh, it's all very well for you Johnnies to gas like that—but, by Gad, you didn't seem over-anxious to stand fire yourselves. Why your teeth are chattering still, BINKS.
Binks. Ah, but I'm only a poor civilian.
Military Sportsman. Well, I cut and ran as a civilian. See? Did anyone shoot the bloomin' bird, after all?
The Host. Shoot him? I should think not. The last I saw of him he was sailing off quite comfortable, cocking snooks at the whole lot. Have another go of pie, JOHNNY?
So that is the Great Woodcock Saga, the absolute accuracy of which every sportsman is bound to recognise. And the great truth that burst upon me is this, that if you want to restore good temper to a shattered party, you must start talking about woodcocks. If you saw a woodcock in the morning, talk about that one. If not, begin about the woodcock you saw last week, or the woodcock somebody else missed the week before. But whatever you do, always keep a woodcock for a (metaphorically) rainy day. Bring him out at lunch next time you shoot, and watch the effect.
"GRIEVANCES OF CIVIL SERVANTS."—Sir, seeing this heading in the Times to a letter which I didn't stop to read, I can only say, for my part, that us servants as is really civil ought not never to have any "grievancies." Tips is the reward to "civil servants."—Yours, THE BUTLER.
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