Soon the fun becomes "fast and furious," four or five rabbits are on foot together, necessitating quick loading and steady shooting. Here one breaks back through the line, and comes past you full tilt. You take a rapid look round to see that no unlucky beater lurks in the rear picking up the wounded—bang—ah! you didn't allow for the oblique line of bunny's course, and were half a foot behind him. The second barrel, however, stretches him a corpse on the field of battle.
At the end of the pasture runs a narrow strip of plantation. Here the shooting is more difficult. The brambles are very thick; you have to take snap-shots as the rabbits bounce from one thicket to another. You must fire where you think he'll be (not where he is), but even this manœuvre is not always successful, as that old man who has been acting as stop at the end of the strip will tell you. "Nobbut eleven!" says he, "there's bin fortty shots fired! Ah coonted 'em!" Conscience-striken, you look at one another, and positively tremble before the scorn depicted in that old man's eye.
Then comes a small outlying covert. Two guns placed back to back command the end—the rest go with the beaters. A wood-pigeon is the first to make a move, which it does with a tremendous bustle and fuss; it affords a pretty shot, coming straight overhead, and falls with a "plop" behind you. Next to take alarm is an old hare. She scampers through the brushwood, staring behind her, and makes for her usual exit—a hole in the hedge, little knowing, poor thing, that she is galloping straight into the jaws of death, for your neighbour's unerring weapon promptly does its duty.
Then, maybe there arises a wild shout, a discordant "Tally-ho!" followed by sundry yells of all shades, and a banging great fox breaks away across the stubble, disappearing in the fence only to emerge again in the pasture. I think a fox one of the most beautifully-proportioned animals there is. He is built on such racing lines! with those long galloping quarters, that deep chest, and muscular neck. Look at him as he steals away over the grass without an effort; he doesn't appear to be going any pace at all, and yet in a moment he is out of sight! No hurry, my friend! You may take it easy to-day, but in a very short time you'll dance to another and a quicker tune played by 17½ couple of the "best hounds in England!"
Meanwhile, four rabbits have taken advantage of your soliloquy to make good their escape. You fire a snap-shot at one as he bobs into the fence. "Mark over," and a pheasant whirrs over the top of the wood. You hastily cram a cartridge into your gun, raise it and pull, only to find that you've forgotten to cock the right barrel; you change on to the left trigger, but this has put you "off," the pheasant goes scathless, and is handsomely knocked down by your companion-in-arms. Perhaps this is an argument in favour of a hammerless gun!
On reaching the big covert the aspect of things is changed. The guns are placed at intervals down the rides, and the beaters go to the far end to bring it up towards you. It is always well to let the guns on either side of you, know your whereabouts, both for your own sake and theirs. Only let us hope you won't meet with the treatment that a friend of ours received. He was placed next to a very deaf old gentleman. Aware that he could not make him hear by calling, or (which is much preferable) by whistling, he took out his handkerchief and waved it to attract his attention. The old gentleman caught sight of it, put up his gun and took a steady and deliberate aim at it! You can easily imagine how our friend ducked and bobbed, and threw himself prone on the grass round the corner!
After a pause a distant shot is heard, then another, and soon you hear the tap tap of the beaters, and "Rabbit up," "Mark over," "Hare to the right," may be continually heard, unless, as in some places, silence is enjoined on the beaters. "Mark cock" is, however, everywhere an exception to this rule, and at the magic words, every gun is on the alert! I never understand why a woodcock should be productive of such wild excitement and reckless shooting as it generally is! The bird flits through the trees a little above the height of a man's head, looking as easy to kill as an owl, but it is a gay deceiver, for barrel after barrel may discharge its deadly contents at it, and still that brown bird flits on as before, turning up and down as it goes. Of course (on paper) you are the one to kill it, when you are loaded with congratulations—their very weight testifying how unexpected was the feat. Rather a doubtful compliment! Half the wood being shot, the guns move round to the outside. What has hitherto been done, has been chiefly a means to an end. The pheasants have been driven with the object of getting them into this particular corner. Possibly the wood stands on the slope of a hill; this gives the best shooting, as the birds fly over the valley affording high and difficult shots, especially if coming down-wind. I think there is nothing prettier than to see real high birds well killed. They fall like stones, with heads doubled up—not waving down, wings and legs out-stretched like the arms of a semaphore!
"Thick and fast they come at last,
And more, and more, and more."
But do not let this tempt you into firing too quick. Pick your bird and kill it, though I grant you this is not an easy thing to do. Many men seem quite to lose their head at a hot corner. They fire almost at random, though, in the case of a few birds coming, they will scarcely miss a shot.