C:—“I left my gun at home!”
A Good Excuse
Baron von Rothschild has made it a strict rule that none of his guests are to take any of the game shot on his preserves away with them. Though he knew this, a gentleman wished to take home to his wife, one of the pheasants he had shot. He hung it up the chimney in his room, and in the evening hid it in his bag. Early the following morning Baron Rothschild came into his guest’s room to take leave of him and at the same time to see whether his friend was going with his gunning bag empty. A setter had followed the Baron into the room, and as he smelled the bird at once, he hunted all over the room until he finally pulled the finest pheasant from the guest’s bag. “You see, Baron, knowing that you send to market all the game that is killed here for you, I retained this pheasant to mark him and so be able to recognize him at the market stall. Farewell!”
Consolation
A:—“I tell you, when I count what my license costs, what my board comes to, while on a gunning trip, what I ruin in clothes and boots, what my neglect of business amounts to, every rabbit I kill costs me about twenty marks!”
B:—“Then you may thank your stars that you hit so few.”
Putting a Stop to Gunners’ Yarns
Canon, the well-known painter, who died recently, was an enthusiastic gunner. Often during the gunning season he would join other friends of the sport at the hotel, and experiences would be exchanged. Now Canon hated all extravagant, impossible yarns, and one evening when some gunners tried to outdo each other, his patience gave way. His strong voice rose above the din, and everybody listened to the following story: “My setter dog,” he began, “has the finest sense of smell; a finer does not exist. One day we were out partridge hunting, but had no luck; after a three hours’ tramp not a shot had been fired. Suddenly my dog stood still, and then began scratching at the root of a small bush. We approached cautiously. The dog kept on digging, and after he had made quite a hole, one of us went up and helped him. All of a sudden he brought to me—a new porcelain pipe with a partridge painted on it. I always carry it with me as a souvenir.” He put his hand in his pocket and laid the pipe on the table. Shouts of laughter greeted it, but there were no more gunning yarns after that.