It was another magnificent chance; but again three pollard willows interfered, and as I fired the bark flew off one of them in small strips.  Quickened by the whistling pellets, the cock suddenly lifted himself again to the top of the hedge to go over, and for a moment came full in view, and quite fifty yards away.  I fired a snap shot as a forlorn hope, and lost sight of him; but the next instant I heard Orion call, ‘He’s down!’ One single chance pellet had dropped the cock—­he fell on the other side just under the hedge.

We hastened back to the brook, thinking that the shooting would attract the keepers, and did not stay to look at the bird till safe over the water.  The long beak, the plumage that seems painted almost in the exact tints of the dead brown leaves he loves so well, the eyes large by comparison and so curiously placed towards the poll of the head as if to see behind him—­there was not a point that did not receive its share of admiration.  We shot about half a dozen rabbits, two more hares, and a woodpigeon afterwards; but all these were nothing compared with the woodcock.

How Farmer ‘Willum’ chuckled over it—­especially to think that we had cut out the game from the very batteries of the enemy!  It was the one speck of bitterness in the old man’s character—­his hatred of this keeper.  Disabled himself by age and rheumatism from walking far, he heard daily reports from his men of this fellow coming over the boundary to shoot, or drive pheasant or partridge away.  It was a sight to see Farmer ‘Willum’ stretch his bulky length in his old armchair, right before the middle of the great fire of logs on the hearth, twiddling his huge thumbs, and every now and then indulging in a hearty laugh, followed by a sip at the ‘straight-cup.’

There was a stag’s horn over the staircase:  ‘Willum’ loved to tell how it came there.  One severe winter long since, the deer in the forest many miles away broke cover, forced by hunger, and came into the rickyards and even the gardens.  Most of them were got back, but one or two wandered beyond trace.  Those who had guns were naturally on the look-out; indeed, a regular hunt was got up—­’Willum,’ then young and active, in it of course.  This chase was not successful; but early one morning, going to look for wild geese in the water-meadow with his long-barrelled gun, he saw something in a lonely rickyard.  Creeping cautiously up, he rested the heavy gun on an ash stole, and the big duck-shot tore its way into the stag’s shoulder.  Those days were gone, but still his interest in shooting was unabated.

Nothing had been altered on the place since he was a boy:  the rent even was the same.  But all that is now changed—­swept away before modern improvements; and the rare old man is gone too, and I think his only enemy also.

There was nothing I used to look forward to, as the summer waned, with so much delight as the snipe shooting.  Regularly as the swallow to the eaves in spring, the snipe comes back with the early frosts of autumn to the same well-known spots—­to the bend of the brook or the boggy corner in the ploughed field—­but in most uncertain numbers.  Sometimes flocks of ten or twenty, sometimes only twos and threes are seen, but always haunting particular places.