Waste land it is, as its name indicates, but in luxuriance of growth it is an oasis amidst the barren hills that screen it from unkind winds. In the spring, its bushes are the first of that wild and unprofitable countryside to spread a wealth of golden blossom; in the autumn, the blackberry-picker crowns her basket with big purple berries from the bushes beside the rushy brook there. Later, when the sloes have shrivelled on the blackthorns and the coralline hips of the dog-rose adorn the leafless briers, the farm-boy, seeking strayed cattle, flushes the first woodcock of the season and forthwith sets a springe or two on the boggy margin of the runnel under the thicket of black withes. From then until February this moor holds more than its share of the longbills, and when woodcock are plentiful in other coverts, in Billy Hal’s moor, to use the country folks’ term, they are “daggin.” In the middle rises a knoll, whence the eye may descry the rude boundaries that enclose its, perhaps, four customary acres.
My friend was pushing aside the snow-laden furze towards this vantage-ground, and I followed in his wake. When he had gained it, he raised the hammers of the gun, and then lifted his hand as a signal to the farmer to let loose the dogs. We knew there were at least three woodcock in the moor, for we had seen them drop there. Before you could count ten, a woodcock rose with a great flapping noise. Bang! went the gun as the bird twisted above the withes. Bang!—down it dropped on the snow a good forty yards away, between the moor and a clump of gloomy pines for which it seemed to be making. As I ran round to fetch it I heard “mark cock” twice in succession, but no report followed, and shortly after, “mark cock” from the farmer, with the discharge of both barrels. The going was very rough, but at length I reached the brown bird lying in the snow beside the brook. What a beauty it was! To this day I cannot handle a woodcock without admiring its rich plumage, nor for that matter, though I have taken hundreds, take a trout off a hook without wondering at its lovely colouring.
It need scarcely be said that the rest of the moor was carefully beaten, but how many woodcock were flushed I cannot remember, nor do I regret it, for I fear the number might savour of exaggeration. Only five were added to the bag. One shot was a very long one, and the bird fell in the upper corner of the moor, near the ruins of Billy Hal’s cottage.
How long it was since Hal squatted on the land and hatched a title, I have not been able to trace, nor the manner of his death, nor even where he lies buried. The country-people venerate his memory, partly because of his great skill in hiding smuggled goods and outwitting the king’s officers, partly because of his markmanship with his blunderbuss. Some crofters aver they have heard from their fathers that there was a mystery about his end, and that Hal was buried at dead of night in his own land. However that may be, there he has at times been seen on clear nights in winter, moving noiselessly about amongst the furze with a short heavy gun, or sitting on the stones of his ruined hearth. It is a great pity that the mantle of the famous ghost-layer, Parson Polkinghorne, has not descended to any of his successors. We have it on the best authority that his exorcising formula, which began with the words “Nommy, Dommy” (in nomine Domini), never failed to lay the poor troubled spirits of those less sceptical days.
The moor having been shot over, we made our way to the house. It was now nearly three o’clock, and I felt tired, though not too tired to eat. The farmer’s daughter had laid our luncheon in the seldom-used parlour. There were sandwiches, mince-pies, a basin of clotted cream, some whortleberry jam, and a plate of sturmer pippins. These last were grown in my friend’s garden on espaliers, and he could generally produce one or two even when the next year’s fruit reddened the quarrenden-tree in the corner by the bee-skip. We stayed but a short time, as I thought, over our lunch, for we needed daylight to find our way down the bottoms, and snow had begun to fall again. From between the half-drawn curtains, where an ostrich egg hung, I had seen the big flakes. So bidding adieu to the dear old lady, we made our way down the hill, and at length reached the clump of firs in the bottoms, where my friend stayed to light his pipe. I should not have mentioned so trifling an incident, had it not been that he used the tinder-box for the purpose. This was his almost invariable custom, except in summer: then he preferred a burning-glass, especially when deep-sea fishing. With a twinkle in his grey eyes the farmer remarked, “Like Mr George, edna?” and shortly after, at a spot where, as the curve of the drift showed, was a gap, he left us and was soon lost to sight in the blinding snow. We had rather less than a mile to go before striking a road, but our progress was poor, owing partly to the drifts, partly to the rough ground that lay under the even surface of the snow. A candle was burning in a window of Hendra farmhouse as we passed the lower pond, and when we came in sight of Boswednan lane we saw the lights—the welcome lights—of a carriage that was awaiting us at the foot of the hill. Of the drive home I know nothing, as I slept soundly the whole way.
Thus ended a day’s sport which lives in my memory when days since enjoyed on grouse-moors and by woodland coverts have been well-nigh forgotten, big bags notwithstanding.
Since penning these lines, I have turned to my friend’s diary. These are his brief entries for the two days:—
“25th December.—Heavy fall of snow. Sharp frost. Bunches of duck and geese in the bay. Seine shot at Mullion. Bonfire on Poldhu Cliff. Eleven loads of fish up by five o’clock next morning, when I left Newlyn cellar.”
“26th December.—At Trewern, Trevean, Penhale, Boswortha Cairn, Billy Hal’s moor, with Jack. 9 woodcock; 3 brace snipe, 2½ golden plover, 1 of teal; 1 big snipe, 1 mallard, 1 bittern. Wind keen as a razor on Boswortha Cairn, very lew in Billy Hal’s moor, which was full of ‘cock.’ ”