Sportsman (to Snobson, who hasn't brought down a single bird all day). "Do you know Lord Peckham?"
Snobson. "Oh dear, yes; I've often shot at his house."
Sportsman. "Ever hit it?"
Renting a well-stocked moor
A shooting party
A Zoological Conundrum.—Intending Tenant (to Lord Battusnatch's Head Keeper). And how about the birds? Are they plentiful, Gaskins?
Gaskins. Well, sir, if the foxes of our two neighbours was able to lay pheasants' eggs, I should say there'd be no better shooting south o' the Trent.
Sad Fatality to one of a Shooting Party on the Moors.—On returning home, after a most successful day's sport, just as he entered the garden he was taken from life by a snap-shot.
A Blank Day.—First Friend. "The birds are terribly wild to-day."
Second Friend. "Not half so wild as our host will be, if it keeps on like this."
At a Dog-Show.—First Fancier. That's a well-bred terrier of yours, Bill.
Second Fancier. And so he ought to be. Didn't the Princess of Wales own his great grand-aunt!
Choke bore
Birds were strong
Men we Never Meet
1. The man who makes no excuses for shooting badly; such as—1. The light was in his eyes; 2. He was bilious; 3. There was something wrong with his cartridges; 4. Too many cigars the night before; 5. Some particular eatable or drinkable taken the night before; 6. Or that morning; 7. He was afraid of hitting that beater; 8. We were walking too fast; 9. He hadn't got his eye in; 10. Or his eye was out; 11. He didn't think it was his bird; 12. It was too far off; 13. He always thought there was something the matter with that gun.
2. The man whose dog hasn't a good nose.
3. The man who can't "shoot a bit sometimes."
4. The man who hasn't some particular theory as to—1. The very best gun; 2. Cartridges; 3. Charges of powder and shot; 4. Best tipple to shoot on; 5. Best sort of boots; 6. Gaiters; 7. And equipment generally.
5. The man who doesn't change the said theory every season.
6. The man who hasn't sometimes said he couldn't shoot after lunch.
7. Or that he could shoot better after lunch.
8. The man who on your remarking that your friend George Lake is a good shot, doesn't answer that you should see Billy Mountain (or someone else) and then you would know what shooting really was.
9. The man who hasn't a friend who "can't hit a haystack."
10. The friend who owns it.
11. The man who doesn't like to be considered a good shot.
12. The man who, being a bad shot, doesn't comfort himself by thinking he knows a worse.
13. The man who hasn't made a longer shot than anyone in the company.
14. The man who, having made it, doesn't tell the story.
15. And who, having told the story, doesn't tell it more than once.
Finally, Mr. Punch is never likely to meet the man who, having read the above, will not own that it is strictly true of those who pursue the pleasant pastime of shooting when, as the eminent Burton puts it, "they have leisure from public cares and business."
The First of September. (Our sporting French friend, voted dangerous, has been given a beat to himself.)—Chorus. "Well, Count, what luck?"
Count. "Magnifique! I have only shot one! Mais voilà! Qu'il est beau! The King partridge! Regardez ses plumes! N'est ce pas?"
Marking black game
Small bags—one brace
"Every Excuse."—Brigson (excited). "Hullo!—There goes a——" (Ups with his gun!)
His Host (clutching his arm). "Good Heavens!—You're not going to shoot that fox?"
Brigson. "My dear f'ller! wh'-wh'-why not? This is the last day I shall have this season—and I—I feel as if I could shoot my own mother-in-law—if she rose!"
Giving 'em both barrels
Dropped his bird
How happy could I be on heather,
A-shooting at grouse all the day,
If only the birds in high feather
Would not, when I shoot, fly away!
Brown (after an hour's digging for the ferret). "Call this rabbit shootin'? I call it landscape gardening!"
"So you don't think much of my retrievers?"
"On the contrary. I think you have two most valuable watch dogs."
"Once Hit Twice Shy."—Guest (taking keeper aside). "Look here, Smithers"—(gives half-a-sov.)—"Put me out o' gunshot of the Squire. He does shoot so precious wild, and my nerve isn't what it used to be!"
"Ground Game."—Wife. "Ah, then you've been successful at last, dear!"
Husband (prevaricating). "Ye—yes, I bagged——"
Wife (sniffing). "And high time you did! I should say by the—oh! it must be cooked to-day!"
Scene—A shooting party, August 12 (M. F. H. is introduced to distinguished foreigner) "You hunt much of the fox, monsieur? I also, and have already of him shot twenty-five, and have wounded many more!"
His "First."—Brown (good chap, but never fired a gun in his life). "I say, you fellows, I don't mind confessing that I am a bit nervous, you know. I hope none of you will pepper me!"]
["The French sportswoman is not ardent, but just now Le Sport is the thing."—Daily Paper.]
Ze leetle bairds zat fly ze air
I vish zem not ze 'arms—
Zat is not vy ze gun I bear
So bravement in mine arms;
'Tis not zat I vould kill—Ah! non!
It is zat I adore
Ze noble institution
Ve call in France Le Sport.
And zen ze costume! Ah! ze 'at!
Ze gaitares! Vot more sweet
For ze young female-chaser zat
Do 'ave ze leetle feet?
Ze gun?—I fear 'im much, and oh!
'E makes my shouldare sore,
But yet I do 'im bear to show
'Ow much I love Le Sport.
Ze leetle partridge 'e may lay
'Is pretty leetle eggs,
Ze leetle pheasant 'op away
Upon 'is leetle legs,
Ze leetle 'are zat run si vite
I do not vish 'is gore—
But vile mine ankles zey are neat
I'll cry, "Ah! Vive le Sport!"
Keeper (to beater). "What are you doin' here? Why don't ye go and spread yourself out?"
Beater. "Zo I were spread out, and t'other man 'e told I, I were too wide!"
Master Bob. "I say, Adam, that was a pretty bad miss."
Keeper. "'Twasn't even that, Master Bob. 'Twas firing in a totally wrong direction."
"Beg pardon, sir! But if you was to aim at his lordship the next time, I think he'd feel more comforbler, sir!"
September's first, the day was fair,
We sought the pleasant stubble,
The birds were rising everywhere,
The old dog gave no trouble.
And still my friend missed every shot,
While I ne'er fired in vain.
I said, "Perchance the day's too hot?"
He cried, "Amelia Jane!"
We shot throughout the livelong day,
We always shoot together,
And yet in a disgraceful way,
He never touched a feather.
I said, "How is it that you muff
Your birds, my boy? Explain."
He sighed and said, "I know it's rough
But, oh, Amelia Jane!"
Quoth I, "Amelia Jane may be
As plump as any partridge,
But that's no reason I can see
Why you should waste each cartridge."
He shot the dog, then missed my head,
But caused the keeper pain;
Then broke his gun and wildly fled
To join Amelia Jane!
"Enough of it."—Country Squire. "By George! Tom, you've gone and shot the dog!"
Friend (from town). "O, I say, old fellow, let's go back and have a game o' billiards, or else I'm quite sure I shall shoot the other one! They keep getting in the way so!"
Hints to Beginners.—Lion hunting. Be quite sure when you go looking for a lion, that you really want to find one.
(A Solemn Tragedy of the Shooting Season)
This is the Grouse that Jack shot.
This the friend who expected the Grouse that Jack shot.
This is the label addressed to the friend who expected the Grouse that Jack shot.
This is the Babel where lost was the label addressed to the friend, &c.
This is the porter who "found" the "birds" in the Babel where lost was the label, &c.
This is the dame with the crumpled hat, wife of the porter who "found" the "birds," &c.
This is the cooking-wench florid and fat of the dame with the crumpled hat, &c.
This is the table where diners sat, served by the cooking-maid florid and fat of the dame with the crumpled hat, &c.
This is the gourmand all forlorn, who dreamed of the table where diners sat, served by the cooking-wench florid and fat, &c.
This is the postman who knocked in the morn awaking the gourmand all forlorn from his dream of the table, &c.
And this is Jack (with a face of scorn), thinking in wrath of "directions" torn from the parcel by railway borne, announced by the postman who knocked in the morn, awaking the gourmand all forlorn, who dreamed of the table where diners sat, served by the cooking-wench florid and fat of the dame with the crumpled hat, wife of the porter who "found" the "birds" in the Babel where lost was the label addressed to the friend who expected the Grouse that Jack shot!
Moral.
If in the Shooting Season you some brace of birds would send
(As per letter duly posted) to a fond expectant friend,
Pray remember that a railway is the genuine modern Babel,
And be very very careful how you fasten on the label!
A Blank Day.—"Well, dear, did you get anything?"
"Not a thing! I only fired once, and that was more out of spite than anything else!"
The sportive M.P., when the Session is done,
Is off like a shot, with his eye on a gun.
He's like Mr. Toots in the Session's hard press,
Finding rest "of no consequence." Could he take less?
But when all the long windy shindy is o'er,
He, like Oliver Twist, is found "asking for Moor!"
Remember, remember,
The month of September—
Partridges, rabbits, and hares;
Any hamper you send,
My breech-loading friend,
Put "Paid" on the label it bears.
Sportiana.—A young sportswoman in the Highlands is reported to have shot "six fine stags through the heart." Must have been "young bucks." Of course, she used Cupid's bullets on her murderous career amid the harts.
"A MOST PALPABLE!"
Beginner (excitedly, the first shot at the end of a blank morning). "How's that, John?"
John. "Well, ye seem to 'ave 'it 'im, sir!"
(By Mr. Punch's Vagrant)
He seemed an inoffensive man
When first I saw him on the stubble;
Made on the self-same sporting plan
As those who shoot with ease or trouble!
The average men, in fact, whose skill
(A thing of luck far more than habit)
Tempts them at times to go and kill
The hare, the partridge and the rabbit.
He rushed not and he did not lag;
He kept the line when we were walking.
He had a useful cartridge-bag;
And was not prone to useless talking.
He smoked an ordinary pipe;
His guns were hammerless ejectors;
He wore a fairly common type
Of patent pig-skin leg-protectors.
He told a story now and then,
Some ancient tale of fur or feather,
That sportsmen love to smile at when
On Autumn days they come together.
In fact, he seemed to outward view
In all his gunned and gaitered glory,
Just such a man as I or you,
Except—but that's another story.
Except (I'll tell it) when he shot:
Then, then he did not care a cuss, sir;
He blazed as if he hadn't got
The least regard for life or us, sir.
Our terrors left him unafraid;
He tried for full-grown birds and cheepers,
And, missing these, he all but made
A record bag of guns and keepers.
The Sinews of Sport.—The Marquis (to head keeper). "Now, Grandison, His Royal Highness will be tired of waiting: why don't you send in the beaters?"
Head keeper (sotto voce). "Beg pardon, my lord, the London train's late this morning with the pheasants—we must have half an hour to get 'em into the coverts!"
At The Quickshot Club.—First Sportsman. Well, I killed four rabbits with two barrels last September.
Second Sportsman. And I had five partridges on one drive, three coming towards me, and two with fresh cartridges over the hill.
Third Sportsman (wearily). But nobody comes up to my slaying of an elephant in Assam with a pea rifle. Would you like to hear the yarn?
Mr. Punch has pleasure in directing the attention of sportsmen of his own limited stature to an advertisement in the Field announcing the sale of an estate, "including fifty acres of sporting woods, together with a small gentleman's residence."
HIS FIRST BIRD
"Well, I didn't miss that one, at all events!"
"No, sir. They will fly into it, sometimes!"
Circumstances over which he has no control oblige the Pater to celebrate the glorious twelfth in town this year. With the help of the poulterer, and the boys (at home for the holidays), he enjoys such excellent sport, that he says "never no moor" will he lavish hundreds of pounds on what he can get for next to nothing at home.
One Way of Looking at it!—Delinquent (to his host). "Oh, I'm most unfortunate! Now, you're the third man I've hit to-day!"
Sportsman (who has just shot a duck). "I think he'll come down, Duncan."
Duncan. "Ay, sir, he'll come down—when he's hungry."
"THE GLORIOUS FIRST"
Young Newstyle (justly indignant, to Squire Oldacres). "There!—'Knew how it would be when you would bring out those beastly dogs. Always in the way, hang 'em!"
Brotherly Candour.—Jack (to lady, come out to lunch). "Are you coming with the guns this afternoon, Miss Maud?"
Miss Maud. "I would, but I don't think I should like to see a lot of poor birds shot!"
Jack. "Oh, if you go with Fred, your feelings will be entirely spared!"
A Risky Proceeding.—Mr. Pipler (of Pipler & Co.) is having his first day on his recently-acquired moor. Any amount of shooting. Bag, absolutely—nothing.
Master Pipler (after much thought). "Of course, they are far too valuable to be killed and eaten, pa. But isn't it rather dangerous to frighten them so much? I heard ma saying they cost you at least a guinea a brace!"
TRIALS OF A NOVICE
Old Hand. "Now, for the last time, for goodness' sake don't shoot any of us, or the dogs, or yourself."
Novice (sarcastically). "What about the birds?"
Old Hand. "Oh, you won't hit them!"
MR. MUGGS' GROUSE MOOR
Mr. Muggs leaves for the north. Mr. M. as he appeared, half a minute before the train started, minus half of his luggage, and with the guard shouting to him to take his seat!
"Pheasant-shooting in some districts will suffer through lack of birds. The wet weather has been fatal to the young broods."—Shooting Reports.
Head Keeper (on the First). "Werry sorry, my lord, but this 'ere's th' on'y one as we've manisht to rare. Will I put it up for your lordship?"
Beater (to hare that refuses to leave her form). "Get oop, ye lazy little beggar an' join in t' spoort!"
SHOOTING PROSPECTS
Johnnie Bangs. "I say, old man, do you mind taking these cartridges out? I've never used a gun before, don't you know!"
The End of the Season.—Passing Friend. "Hulloa, Jack! Why on earth are you hiding there?"
Jack. "Only safe place, don't you know. Governor's giving the tenants a day to finish the covers. They've just about finished two dogs and a beater already!"
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.
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!"
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!"
The partridge is a cunning bird,
He likes not those who bring him down:
From age to age he has preferred
The shots that blaze into the brown,
Whose stocks come never shoulder high,
Who never pause to pick and choose,
But on whose biceps you descry
The black, the blue, the tell-tale bruise.
Or should a stubborn cartridge swell,
And jam, as it may chance, your gun,
The sly old partridge knows it well,
"Great Scott!" he seems to chirp "here's fun!"
He gathers all his feathered tribe,
They leave the stubble or the grass,
And with one wild and whirling gibe
Above your silent muzzles pass.
Your scheme you carefully contrive,
And, while each beater waves his flag,
Your fancy, as they duly drive,
Already sees a record bag.
But lo! they baulk your keen desire,
For, though with birds the sky grows black,
Not one of them will face the fire,
And every blessed bird goes back.
For partridges I'll try no more;
Why should I waste in grim despair?
Take me to far Albania's shore,
And let me bag the woodcock there.
Or on the Susquehanna's stream
I'll shoot with every chance of luck
The gourmet's glory and his dream,
The canvas-back, that juicy duck.
Yea, any other bird I'll shoot,
But not again with toil and pain
I'll tramp the stubble or the root.
Nor wait behind a fence in vain.
For of all birds you hit or miss
(I've tried it out by every test),
Again I say with emphasis
The partridge is the cunningest.