THE "CHEEP" OF THE PARTRIDGE
Reading edition
Perdix Cinerea loquitur
'Tis the voice of the sportsman. I hear him complain, "All my hopes of big bags have been damped by the rain. With birds shy and scarce, flooded furze and no stubble, To beat dripping covers is scarce worth the trouble." Aha! The wind's ill that blows nobody good, True, the wet has proved fatal to many a brood, Parent birds have made moan over eggs swamped and addled, When our covers were lakes in which ducks might have paddled, But partridges drowned when they'd scarce chipped the shell, Yet,—yes, on the whole, 'tis perhaps just as well. Water! Better than fire; and a cold in the head Is not quite so bad as a dose of cold lead. Prime time for swell vassals of powder and shot! What's September to them, without plenty to pot? Oh! won't they fume, as they look out this morn On these damp furzy swamps, and yon drenched standing corn? Poor grumbling gun-maniacs! Isn't it fun? In the game "Birds v. Barrels" we birds will score one Just for once, I should hope. In this beautiful bog I am safe, I should fancy, from man, gun, and dog. They may bag a few birds on the skirts of the wheat, But I don't think this cover will pay 'em to beat. St. Partridge be bothered! St. Swithin's my Saint, May his rainy rain last, I shall make no complaint. No! Farmers and sportsmen may grumble together— For my part, I rather approve of the weather. [Left chuckling.
HINTS TO BEGINNERS. GROUSE DRIVING
Birds coming straight towards you sometimes offer a very unsatisfactory shot.
Over the Stubble.—Mr. Winchester Poppit (at the luncheon by the coppice). I must say that I like to see partridges driven.
Captain Treadfoot Trotter (who believes in shooting over dogs). No doubt, Mr. Poppit, you'd like to see the poor birds driven in a coach, or a tandem, or a curricle; or, if I may judge by the way you sent my pointer round the last field, ye'd wish to put 'em in a circus!
Wild Sports.—The Sportsmen (from the wood). "Hullo, Tonsonby! You've had a good place. We've heard you blazing away all the afternoon. How many have you bagged?"
Tonsonby (a town man). "O, bother your tame pheasants. I've tree'd a magnificent tom cat here, and had splendid sport, but I can't hit him. You come and try!"
RATHER STARTLING
"Well, Count! Any sport this morning?"
"Hélas! mon ami, very sad sport! I 'ave shot three beautiful misses!"
[He means he has missed three beautiful shots.
HER "FIRST"
Miss Nimrod. "Oh, dear! he's pointing! Which end do I shoot at?"
Out after partridges. Unluckily, tripped up just as Di's cousin got in the way. Thought Di rather unnecessarily sympathetic, as he was by no means dangerously hit.
RISKY
Mr. O'Fluke (whose shooting has been a bit wild). "Very odd, Robins, that I don't hit anything?"
Robins (dodging muzzle). "Ah, but a'm afeard it's ower good luck to continue, sir!"
MR. TUBBING'S SHOOTING PONY
Mr. Tubbing--Now my boy, this beats walking. Oh yes,the man I had him from said he has been very perfectly trained.
But alas for the veracity of horse dealers
At the first shot he bolted incontinently.
Mr. tubbings yells for help only made matters worse
But the lake stopped him
"Throw him down, throw the little brute down, and I'll drown him"
Rather Proud of it.—Landlord (who is having a shoot for his tenant-farmers). "Good Heavens, Mr. Mangold! That bird can't have been more than a couple of feet over Mr. Butter's head!"
Mr. Mangold. "Oh! That's what I call shootin'!"
Mistaken Vocation.—Major Missemall (an enthusiast on sporting dogs). "Confound the brute! That's the dog I was going to run in the retriever trials, too. But I won't now."
Friend. "I wouldn't. I'd reserve him for the Waterloo Cup."
Derision.—Bagnidge (to his friend's keeper). "Tut-t-t-t—dear me! Woodruff, I'm afraid I've shot that dog!"
Keeper. "Oh no, sir, I think he's all right, sir. He mostly drop down like that if anybody misses!!"
Echo Answers.—Short-sighted swell (to gamekeeper, who has been told off to see that he "makes a bag") "Another hit, Wiggins! By the way—rum thing—always seem to hear a shot somewhere behind me, just after I fire!"
Wiggins (stolidly). "Yes, sir, 'zactly so, sir. Wunnerfle place for echoes this 'ere, sir!"