Slowly Fate prepares for each of us the religion that lies coiled in our most secret nerves; with such we cannot trifle, we do not even try!  But how shall a man grudge any one sensations he has so keenly felt?  Let such as have never known those curious delights, uphold the hand of horror—­for me there can be no such luxury.  If I could, I would still perhaps be knowing them; but when once the joy of life in those winged and furry things has knocked at the very portals of one’s spirit, the thought that by pressing a little iron twig one will rive that joy out of their vitals, is too hard to bear.  Call it aestheticism, squeamishness, namby-pamby sentimentalism, what you will it is stronger than oneself!

Yes, after one had once watched with an eye that did not merely see, the thirsty gaping of a slowly dying bird, or a rabbit dragging a broken leg to a hole where he would lie for hours thinking of the fern to which he should never more come forth—­after that, there was always the following little matter of arithmetic:  Given, that all those who had been shooting were “good-fair” shots—­which, Heaven knew, they never were—­they yet missed one at least in four, and did not miss it very much; so that if seventy-five things were slain, there were also twenty-five that had been fired at, and, of those twenty-five, twelve and a half had “gotten it” somewhere in their bodies, and would “likely” die at their great leisure.

This was the sum that brought about the only cleavage in our lives; and so, as he grew older, and trying to part from each other we no longer could, he ceased going to Scotland.  But after that I often felt, and especially when we heard guns, how the best and most secret instincts of him were being stifled.  But what was to be done?  In that which was left of a clay pigeon he would take not the faintest interest—­the scent of it was paltry.  Yet always, even in his most cosseted and idle days, he managed to preserve the grave preoccupation of one professionally concerned with retrieving things that smell; and consoled himself with pastimes such as cricket, which he played in a manner highly specialised, following the ball up the moment it left the bowler’s hand, and sometimes retrieving it before it reached the batsman.  When remonstrated with, he would consider a little, hanging out a pink tongue and looking rather too eagerly at the ball, then canter slowly out to a sort of forward short leg.  Why he always chose that particular position it is difficult to say; possibly he could lurk there better than anywhere else, the batsman’s eye not being on him, and the bowler’s not too much.  As a fieldsman he was perfect, but for an occasional belief that he was not merely short leg, but slip, point, midoff, and wicket-keep; and perhaps a tendency to make the ball a little “jubey.”  But he worked tremendously, watching every movement; for he knew the game thoroughly, and seldom delayed it more than three minutes when he secured the ball.  And if that ball were really lost, then indeed he took over the proceedings with an intensity and quiet vigour that destroyed many shrubs, and the solemn satisfaction which comes from being in the very centre of the stage.