"Why, snipe, plover—anything that may turn up."
"Be jabers, he'll have for to poach, thin."
"What do you mean, Billy?"
"Divvle resave the feather there is betune this an' Ballybann; they're dhruv out av the cunthry."
"Nonsense, man. We'll get a snipe in Booker's fields."
"Ye will, av ye sind to Dublin for it."
I felt rather down in the mouth, for I had during the season given unlimited permission to my surrounding neighbours to blaze away—a privilege which had been used, if not abused, to the utmost limits. Scarce a day passed that we were not under fire, and on several occasions were in a state of siege, in consequence of a succession of raids upon the rookeries adjoining the house.
"We can try Mr Pringle's woods, Billy."
"Yez had betther lave thim alone, or the coroner 'ill be afther havin' a job. Pringle wud shoot his father sooner nor he'd let a bird be touched."
"This is very awkward," I muttered.