and cried,— “Halloo, there! What are you doing?”
“Look out he don't shoot you,” called out Polly from the other window, suddenly going on another tack.
I explained that a sportsman would not be likely to shoot a gentleman in his own house, with bird-shot, so long as quails were to be had.
“You have no business here: what are you after?” I repeated.
“Looking for a lost hen,” said the man as he strode away.
The reply was so satisfactory and conclusive that I shut the blinds and went to bed.
But one evening I overhauled one of the poachers. Hearing his dog in the thicket, I rushed through the brush, and came in sight of the hunter as he was retreating down the road. He came to a halt; and we had some conversation in a high key. Of course I threatened to prosecute him. I believe that is the thing to do in such cases; but how I was to do it, when I did not know his name or ancestry, and couldn't see his face, never occurred to me. (I remember, now, that a farmer once proposed to prosecute me when I was fishing in a trout-brook on his farm, and asked my name for that purpose.) He said he should smile to see me prosecute him.
“You can't do it: there ain't no notice up about trespassing.”