Now, late partridges are perhaps the least amenable of created
things. They cherish a perfectly ridiculous conviction that nature,
in endowing them with life, intended that they should preserve it,
and consequently they hold it to be their one aim and object to fly,
whirring and cheeping, out of sight, long before even an enthusiastic
shot could have a chance of proving to them how beautifully a bird can
be missed. For some reason or other, our host had refused or had been
unable to drive the birds. One result was that we had tramped and
tramped and tramped, getting only rare shots, and doing but little
execution. Another result was, that the place was simply littered
with lost tempers, and we sat down to lunch very much out of conceit
with ourselves, our guns, our cartridges, the keepers, the dogs, and
everything else. The pleasant array of plates and glasses, and the
savoury odours of the meats mitigated, but did not dispel the frowns.
Then suddenly there dropped down amongst us, as it were from the
sky, the Great Woodcock Saga. In a moment the events of the morning
were forgotten, brows cleared, tempers were picked up, and an eager
hilarity reigned over the company, while the adventures of the
wonderful bird were pursued from tree to tree, from clump to clump,
through all the zig-zags of his marvellous flight, until he finally
vanished triumphantly into the unknown.
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