The consciousness that your gun is charged imbues you with a strange thrill of importance. You are deadly. Come what may, lion, bear, wildcat, squirrel, rabbit, eagle, owl, partridge, you are prepared, so let them one and all beware.
You and Hen talk in guarded tones, whilst your four eyes rove hither and thither, greedy to sight prey. But under-foot, stealthy though you fancy your advance, rustle the dried leaves, spreading afar the news of your passage; and hushed though you consider your voices, they penetrate into sharp ears attuned to catch the slightest alien sound. Eyes, sharper than yours, widen and wait.
You would give the world to see a rabbit or a squirrel. You have just as much chance of seeing a rabbit or a squirrel as you have of seeing a hippopotamus. However, it doesn’t matter.
Hist! On before something twitters.
“There’s a bird!”
“Sh, can’t you! I hear him!”
Cautiously you and Hen steal forward, tip-toeing over crackling leaf and twig, your gaze riveted on the distance.
“I see him!” announces Hen, excitedly.
“Where?” you whisper.
“There—in that tree! Now he’s runnin’ ’round the trunk! He’s a woodpecker.” (Naturalists might cavil and term him a “warbler,” but just the same he acts like a woodpecker!) “Can’t you see him?”