As it is necessary in this kind of _cha.s.se_ to spend the night under the trees and on the damp moss, those who wish to enjoy it prepare for it accordingly by dressing themselves like Navarre, in a suit of sheepskins, and lay in a good store of cold meat and brandy.

During their nocturnal peregrinations, instinct leads the woodc.o.c.k to follow ascending roads and open pathways, especially such as are completely exposed to the mild winds of the south and south-east only; they avoid walking through the woods, where the road is enc.u.mbered with brambles and other obstacles, which would oblige them to hop or fly far oftener than they like, occasionally leaving a portion of their feathers behind them. Moreover, their feet are tender, and they in consequence prefer the paths that are overgrown with gra.s.s, the open glades, or roads cut through the moss.

It is now that the sportsman who is well versed in the private history of the woodc.o.c.k prepares his snares; for at this period of the year it is by them that they are taken.

Penetrating, therefore, the depths of the forest, the experienced _cha.s.seur_ soon discovers, in some secluded spot, a path well carpeted with verdure, lighted by a few stray moonbeams and sheltered from the wind, where he forthwith begins to lay his snares. Should the path be broad, he proceeds to contract it, strewing it partially with stones, brambles, and thorns; he likewise cuts down some twigs and branches, and sticks them into the ground at intervals, so as to present as many impediments and _chevaux de frise_ as he can to thwart the progress of the lazy bird. The middle of the path should be left quite free, and wide enough to allow a couple of woodc.o.c.ks to walk abreast. Into this narrow pa.s.sage they all walk without suspicion, and their further progress is prevented by their falling into the trap which is laid to receive them.

This snare is placed across a hole about the size of a crown piece, and consists of a strong noose made of horsehair, which is fixed to a peg, and so arranged that the slightest touch causes it to rebound and catch them by the leg.

In the hole is laid a fine, fat, red worm, healthy and tempting, and, in order to prevent the poor prisoner's escaping, the sportsman has devised a method of keeping him down in spite of himself, by pinning him to the ground at one end with a long thorn--it is presumed worms do not feel; his miserable contortions attract the attention of the hungry woodc.o.c.k, who immediately seizes this irresistible t.i.t-bit.

Every preparation completed and the snare baited, the hole, the worm, and the noose are carefully covered over by a withered leaf--a second snare, similarly concealed, is set on the right, a third in the middle, and so on at a distance of three or four feet from each other. All is now in readiness, and twilight finds the sportsman covered up in his skins at some fifty paces from his traps. Here, after having comforted his inward man, and sharpened his sight by swallowing two or three gla.s.ses of cognac, addressing between them an invocation to his patron saint, he listens and waits.

On come the long-bills, looking right and left, pecking the ground, peering at the moon and the stars, and eating all they can find in their way. They now approach the dangerous defile, and some of the younger ones fly over the traps; others, more prudent, turn back; but the main body hold a council of war, when the staff officers having decided that these Thermopylae must be pa.s.sed, first one woodc.o.c.k and then another taking heart proceeds, and the sportsman hugs himself in his success on perceiving the whole troop making towards the baits he has spread for them. Before long one of the birds gets its leg entangled, totters, falls, rises again, but in doing so is made fast by the noose, and in spite of its efforts is unable to advance a step further. Another, hearing the sound of a worm struggling at the bottom of a hole, darts in its beak, with the charitable intention of ending the prisoner's sufferings, and on raising its head is suddenly seized by the neck. The sportsman now steals softly from his hiding-place, and, stooping down, smashes the woodc.o.c.k's brain with his thumb nail, and so on with the next, after which he retreats to his post, and keeps up the game till dawn. Some persons will in this manner catch from twenty to thirty woodc.o.c.ks in a single night; but they must be favourably placed, have a great number of snares, and, moreover, possess a considerable degree of skill, and tread lightly, (for the most important point, in this sport, is to make as little noise as possible,) and be very quick at putting the snares in order the moment they have been used--no easy work, in good sooth, seeing that it must be performed by an occasional ray of moonlight.

If late on the ground, and you have not sufficient time to obstruct and barricade the road as directed above, the earth may be turned up in the middle of the path and the snares placed across it; the woodc.o.c.ks, in the hope of finding something to eat, will immediately walk on to it--but although this method occasionally succeeds it is far from being as good as the first, for the soil does not offer the same resistance as the turf, the holes get filled up, and the birds escape more easily.

The sportsman should mind and bag his game as fast as it is snared, or master Reynard, who has been watching the whole affair, will pounce upon his birds and carry them off, with a dozen nooses into the bargain.

Poachers reap an ample harvest of cash by this mode of taking woodc.o.c.ks, while other sportsmen generally reap the rheumatism; and, truth to say, the silence and immobility that must be observed all night long, the intense cold, and the damp fogs which cover the forest in the early morning, are not very agreeable, and most gentlemen prefer staying at home, enjoying the innocent diversion of playing the flute, quarrelling with their wives, or emptying the bottle.

To succeed well in snaring woodc.o.c.ks requires both skill and experience, and a thorough knowledge of the woods, the winds, the colour of the clouds, the age of the moon, the state of the atmosphere; and, in fact, short of being a poacher or a conjuror, how is it possible to know that the woodc.o.c.ks will pa.s.s one spot rather than another in a s.p.a.ce of several score of square miles, and amongst so many and such intricate paths. The _braconnier_ alone is infallible on these points, and curious specimens of the human biped are these same poachers!

In the first place it must not be imagined that the poachers of Le Morvan bear the slightest resemblance to those of England. They are as much alike as Thames water and Burgundy wine. The English poacher is a rank vagabond, who invades every one's game-preserves at dead of night, and kills whatever he finds, whether hares, partridges, dogs, pheasants, or gamekeepers,--while ours are men following a legitimate occupation.

In Le Morvan, forests are open to all; there are no palings to get over, and no keepers to fear; the public may hunt, shoot, or snare what they please.

The poacher commences his hard apprenticeship in early childhood. Nature directs him to adopt this course of life, and endows him with a bold heart, a cool head, a sinewy frame, and an iron const.i.tution. The incipient poachers soon leave the inhabited districts to live in the forests, with trees for their roof, and moss for their bed. They study alike the woods and the stars, and know the forest by heart, with its roads and glades, beaten tracks and untrodden paths. From sunrise to sunset they are always-a-foot, walking through the thickets, tramping over heaths, or stooping amongst the brushwood, listening, and looking everywhere, and by night and by day constantly making their observations on the direction of the wind, the habits of the animals that pa.s.s them, or the birds that fly over their heads.

In this way they ferret out every nook and every winding in the forest, and now here and now there build themselves a hut, live upon fruit, chestnuts, and their game, which they roast upon embers; and never come into a town except to purchase powder, shot and ball, or perhaps a pair of shoes, some tobacco, and brandy.

Such is the rough life of the youthful poacher, nor has he any companion during this wild period of his existence, excepting a dog, the faithful partner of his joys and dangers, and who becomes a devoted friend and brother for life. They live together, talk to each other, understand each other, and guess each other's slightest wish. I have seen a poacher talking to his dog by the hour together, the man laughing fit to split at what his canine companion was telling him in his own peculiar way, while the dog, rolling on the gra.s.s, barked with delight at what his master answered.

When on their shooting expeditions, a sign from his master, a nod, a wink, an uplifted finger, or the slightest whisper, are either of them sufficient for his guidance; he stops, or dashes onward, takes a leap, or crouches down, as the case may be, and never is he known to be at fault.

On his part the poacher has only to refer to his dog as to the pages of a book, and he reads at once in his slightest movements what is in the wind, what bird lies hidden in the gra.s.s, or what beast is cowering in the thicket. By the position of his head, the manner in which he scratches the ground, p.r.i.c.ks his ear, or carries his tail, he understands as plainly as if he spoke whether he announces the proximity of a wolf, a partridge, a woodc.o.c.k, a roebuck, a hare, or a rabbit.

I have known poachers who have told me half an hour beforehand what we were going to meet. Another would bid his dog bring him a leaf, a branch, a flower, or a mushroom, and off he went, sought, found, and brought back the identical article required. "Now, sing," said the poacher, and the dog began to sing; not, indeed, exactly like Mario, but he produced a kind of melodious growl, a sort of improvised musical lament over his solitary life, which had its charm. Most poachers are exceedingly fond of music, and as they are always singing in their leisure moments, of course their dog joins them; so that when they are both in the humour for it, they execute duets in the depths of the forest that make the very nightingales jealous.

By the time a poacher has acquired a complete knowledge of wood-craft, and that he knows familiarly every path and every bush in the forest, every hole and every stone in the mountains, together with the habits, character, and favourite haunts of every species of game; has made a reputation, and put by some money; that he is beginning to turn gray, and is verging on forty, his fondness for this savage kind of life begins to diminish, his rough exterior becomes somewhat softened, he purchases a solitary little cottage in some secluded spot, comes oftener into town, and occasionally partakes of its pleasures.

In poaching, as in everything else, there are varieties of taste, and degrees of superiority. Some fish, others hunt only the roebuck and the boar, others shoot squirrels and wild cats, others again excel in snaring woodc.o.c.ks, while some are dead hands at scenting and tracking a wolf. Each poacher has his peculiar line, and each line furnishes a livelihood.

But when it happens, once in a way, that there is a man who unites a profound knowledge of the forest to an equally profound knowledge of the waters--who hunts, tracks, and shoots all sorts of game with equal success, and is also an expert fisherman, then he is a superior man of his kind, complete at all points, a sort of Napoleon in his way, and his countrymen bestow on him the t.i.tle of the "double poacher,"--for thus was called my worthy friend Le Pere Seguin.

CHAPTER X.

The woodc.o.c.k--Its habits in the forests of Le Morvan--Aversion of dogs to this bird--Timidity of the woodc.o.c.k--Its cunning--Shooting in November--The Woodc.o.c.k mates--The Woodc.o.c.k fly.

In the last and preceding chapters, the imaginative and romantic have predominated almost to the entire exclusion of any description of the wild sports of Le Morvan, and I fear that the sporting reader, not generally of a very sentimental taste, will ere this have become impatient, and perhaps a little angry at the delay. I trust, however, that I may be able to soften his indignation, and by the following sketches gratify the expectations naturally raised in his mind by the first words of the t.i.tle-page. Of boar and wolf-hunting we shall speak further on: my present object will be to give a description, not only of the woodc.o.c.k-shooting in Burgundy and Le Morvan, but also of the habits, etc., of that bird.

In the forests of which we are writing, the woodc.o.c.k is not a mere bird of pa.s.sage, as in other European countries; it does not fly beyond sea, like the swallow and most of the emigrating feathered tribes, nor does it disappear like the quail, at a fixed period, and reappear at a given moment. Here the woodc.o.c.k seldom if ever deserts the forests which have been its constant abode, and the sportsman is sure to find it nearly all the year round. I have said nearly, for though not seeking other climes, it requires a change of locality to secure a certain temperature.

For instance, in the months of May, June, July, and August, woodc.o.c.ks are to be found in elevated spots, such as mountains covered with large trees, or in warm open places on their slopes. At the first approach of cold weather they leave the hills, and come down into the plains, concealing themselves in the underwood, or the fern, or in the high gra.s.s, when the snow begins to fall. The woodc.o.c.k is a melancholy bird, and somewhat misanthropic. Its habits are eminently anti-social; it flies but little, so little indeed that its wings seem scarcely of any use, and with the laziness already alluded to that forms its characteristic feature, it seeks out a solitary spot, and having dug a hole amongst the dry leaves, there it will squat for days together without stirring. It likewise delights to cower under the gnarled roots of an old oak, or to hide itself in a holly-bush, and apparently derives so much satisfaction from its own meditations, and seems to hold all other birds of the forest in such utter contempt, that it never by any chance deigns to join their sports, or mingle in their joyous songs. The woodc.o.c.k seeks the darkest and most silent thickets, and likes a marly soil, damp meadows, and the neighbourhood of brooks and stagnant water.

But though motionless and torpid, so long as the sun is above the horizon, woodc.o.c.ks are always on the alert, and wake and shake their feathers the moment night comes; leaving the shady thickets and gra.s.sy spots, they flock to the glades and little paths of the woods, and thrust their long beaks into the soft, damp soil--for this bird, be it remembered, never touches either corn or fruit, but lives entirely upon grubs and earth-worms.

It naturally follows that the woodc.o.c.k, which finds its food in slimy marshes, with head bent, and eyes fixed upon the ground, possesses none of the gaiety and vivacity of other birds, holds but a very low place in the scale of animal intelligence, and possesses a large share of that stupidity peculiar to the dull species that were formed to live in the mire.

The size of the woodc.o.c.k varies exceedingly; they are much smaller than the domestic fowl, but heavier and larger than the heath partridge; yet there are some which are as small as a wood-pigeon, and even less. Their plumage is dark, and harmonizes admirably with the trunks of the trees and moss amongst which they dwell. Even in the daylight, and at a distance of only twenty paces, it is impossible to distinguish a woodc.o.c.k, as it lies motionless, with closed wings, and neck extended on the ground, amongst the withered leaves.

When walking on the gra.s.s, there is a certain elegance in its movements, while the beautiful _chiar' oscuro_ tints of its wings, the gray and orange hues on its breast, its long black legs streaked with pink, its large beak, small head, and symmetrical proportions, combine to render it a bird of no ordinary beauty. Though its eyes are piercing and very open, the woodc.o.c.k only sees distinctly at twilight, and its flight is never so even or so rapid, nor its motions so brisk, or its gait so regular, as at nightfall or at dawn of day.

The flesh is black, firm, and of a game flavour, and, with the wise, is a most dainty morsel, a royal t.i.t-bit. But dogs think differently, and have such an aversion to its smell, that they hunt, seize, and bring it back much against their will; and, difficult as it may be to account for this antipathy, it seems to be as inherent in canine nature, as the antipathy which all ladies show to contradiction is in the human.

Far removed from the strife that occasionally rages amidst the feathered tribes of the forest, or the more formidable struggles of its four-footed inhabitants, whose howls occasionally startle the silence of night, and quite indifferent as to whether a fox or a wolf is seated on the sylvan throne, the woodc.o.c.k, like a true philosopher, in the depths of the thicket, leads a calm and sedentary life, requiring no other elements of happiness than moonlight, rest, and a few worms. Its tastes are so humble, its wants so few; it mixes so little with the world, and is so ignorant of all intrigue, that nothing can exceed its innocence.

Like those honest country-folks who can never manage to shake off their native simplicity, its instinct never puts it on its guard against a snare, and consequently it falls into the first that is set for it.

A complete stranger to the fierce emotions that excite the savage nature of those animals that live constantly at war with one another, the peaceful woodc.o.c.k--the bird of twilight--is startled by the least noise, and stunned by the slightest accident. Many a time, at dawn of day, when lying in wait for the pa.s.sage of a fox, a roebuck, or a wolf, have I seen two, three, four, even five woodc.o.c.ks slowly issue from their leafy covert, and advance with measured step towards the open glade, apparently without imagining that by leaving the shade of the trees they were exposing themselves to being seen. On they walked, searching by the way, plunging from time to time their long beaks into the gra.s.s, and shaking their heads right and left to enlarge the hole, they breakfasted luxuriously on the worms that crept out of it.

Concealed behind an oak-tree, I have sometimes been highly amused by watching their motions, nor had I the least wish to disturb them, not caring to rouse the echoes of the forest for such insignificant game. So the woodc.o.c.ks went on with their manoeuvres, holding down their heads, with eyes intent upon the gra.s.s, evidently engrossed by their own occupation. In this manner they unconsciously advanced close to me, when suddenly rising from the ground I gave a loud shout, at which the startled birds were so panic-struck that they literally fell down, and fluttering their wings, without having the power to fly, looked at me with rolling eye-b.a.l.l.s, while their beaks opened as if to call for help, emitting nothing but inarticulate sounds, that seemed so many prayers for mercy. Somewhat relieved of their worst fears, on perceiving that I had no evil intentions, they rushed away head over heels, and sought refuge under their favourite roots. The recollection of this scene, which only lasted seven or eight seconds, has often made me laugh.

Yet notwithstanding this general want of presence of mind, the woodc.o.c.k displays some cunning in extreme danger,--such as when the shot is whistling past its feathers, or when the hawk is wheeling about in the air above its head; its faculties then seem to awaken, its blood circulates more freely, a spark of intelligence seems to flash across its usually obtuse brain, and the magnitude of the peril suggests an excellent means of escaping from its enemies. During the daytime, for instance, when, snugly ensconced in its hole, and with its ear close to the ground, the woodc.o.c.k hears you approach from afar, instead of rising and taking refuge amongst the trunks of the surrounding trees, it first reflects solemnly whether it is worth while to disturb itself for so slight a noise, and quit its leafy bed, where it lies so warm and comfortable. After all, it may be only a hare running past--or perhaps a roebuck grazing in the neighbourhood--so the woodc.o.c.k waits, then listens, then stands up and begins to move; on hearing your thick shoes trampling the withered branches, it stands motionless, not daring to stir, nor can it make up its mind to fly until it feels the breath of your dog. Then it rises rapidly enough.

It flies straight, but its flight is not even, and at the distance of about fifty paces, and just as you are going to fire, the woodc.o.c.k, well aware that the sportsman's eye is upon it, and shrewdly guessing that thunder and lightning is about to follow, changes his tactics, and lowering its flight, so as to avoid the mortal aim, suddenly plunges down behind a bush. The sportsman, who, not aware of this specious manoeuvre, fires at this juncture, thinks the bird has fallen dead, and forthwith runs to pick it up, but no woodc.o.c.k can he find; for on raising his eyes, lo! and behold, he sees the provoking bird some five hundred paces distant, cleaving the air with sails full set; and as his eyes follow it still further, he perceives it flying with all its might, ever and anon prudently ducking down to avoid the second barrel.

This is one of the woodc.o.c.k's best stratagems, and it succeeds ten times out of twelve, at least with the tyros among sportsmen.

When fairly tired by its flight, the woodc.o.c.k drops into the underwood, and is then completely lost to the sportsman; for, once on the ground, it runs with the greatest celerity, its wings working rapidly like a couple of paddles, and vanishing beneath the leaves, falls fainting into some snug corner.

In Brittany and in Lower Normandy this ornament of the table and delight of the sportsman is found in great numbers at a certain season of the year. In Picardy, and in the neighbourhood of Boulogne, I have sometimes knocked over as many as twenty woodc.o.c.ks in one day, while on the morrow and the day following I could not flush three. Such is not the case in Le Morvan, where they are, as we have before remarked, to be found all the year round; the proper seasons, however, for shooting them are three. These are, the month of November, before the rains set in; the month of April, when they mate; and the sultry months of June and July; the period of drought and of the dog-days. In the interim of these epochs they are allowed to enjoy themselves, and suffered to fatten quietly in their dark thickets. I shall, therefore, only notice these three periods.

In foggy or cloudy nights, when the branches of the trees are dripping wet, the woodc.o.c.k, ensconced in its hole, feels no hunger, moves not, and would not venture abroad for love or money; but should the sky prove clear, and the moon shine forth, lighting up the forest paths, the delighted bird steals from its dwelling, shakes its feathers, and sallies forth on its adventures. For the woodc.o.c.k, like poets and lovers, is fond of the moonlight and the sweet perfumes of evening.

Hence it is that sportsmen in France call the full moon of November "the woodc.o.c.k's moon," and they hail its appearance with as much rejoicing as do the foxes, wild cats, and poachers, all of whom make sad havoc amongst the long-beaked tribe during this fatal period.

The woodc.o.c.k has been described as an idle, heavy, timid, and stupid bird, which pa.s.ses the greater portion of the day in lethargic slumbers, in gazing at the south, at the growing gra.s.s, or the falling leaves; rejoicing only in silence and solitude; and such is the case during nine months of the year. In the spring, however, it is quite otherwise; the woodc.o.c.k then mates, and, ere April showers have pa.s.sed away, becomes animated, sociable, and full of life; and, more extraordinary still, its voice, till then mute, may actually be heard.

Yes, at this delightful season the woodc.o.c.k is no longer silent, its tongue is loosened, it breathes its tale of love, and, with joyful notes, proclaims its happiness morning and night; and yet there are those who would make us believe that the tender pa.s.sion is useless, that love is tom-foolery, or that it does not exist. To these blind blasphemers, who thus deny its power, I would respectfully say, Come to Le Morvan, and observe the woodc.o.c.k, and then dare to say that love is an untruth. Why, love is the great magician of the universe, the sun of our minds, a path of fragrant violets, a perfect copse of _millefleurs_, before which we all bend our hearts, aye, and, with vastly few exceptions, our heads too. Yes, we all, at some period of our lives, taste the delicious draught, and some drink deep of it, either to their life-long happiness or the reverse. Love effects many a miracle, changes everything, bows the neck of the proud, opens the eyes of the blind, and shuts them for those who have very good sight; teaches the dumb to speak, and those who are very loquacious to be silent. When the rosy and naked little boy makes his appearance with his quiver, all is joy and unreflecting happiness; when he is at home with his mamma, alas! the world is all in shadow. The woodc.o.c.ks, in like manner, are amiable, eloquent, and engaging as long as the fumes of love affect their brain; but when these are dissipated, they are dumb, and ten times more stupid than they were before; and, dear me, how many human woodc.o.c.ks, robed in satin and balzarine, or sheathed in kerseymere trousers, are the same.

But, shades of Buffon and Linnaeus! we must not thus rattle on, but proceed to describe the nuptial couch of the delicious bird under our consideration. The woodc.o.c.k, like all those of the feathered tribe that do not perch, makes its nest on the ground, which is composed of leaves, fern, and dry gra.s.s, intermixed with little bits of stick, and strengthened by larger pieces placed across it. This nest, made without much art or care, in form like a large brown ball, is generally placed under, and sheltered by the root of some old tree. Four or five eggs, a little larger than those of the common pigeon, of a dirty gray and yellow colour, and marked with little black spots, are the proofs of its maternity. The woodc.o.c.k, as I have before remarked, has only the gift of talking in the spring season, when soft breezes fan the air, and they educate their young. Nevertheless, it is in this season that woodc.o.c.k-shooting is the most amusing. Then is the time for gentlemen to shoot; the _braconnier_ despises it. From the middle of April to that of May is the important epoch at which the generality of animals marry, and the woodc.o.c.ks are not behindhand in this respect; they leave their well-concealed retreats, become humanized, solicit the attentions of their feathered ladies, and fly with gay inspirations amongst the neighbouring bushes. But though as much in love as a widow, the woodc.o.c.k does not on that account forget its habitual prudence; like the usurer who lends his money, and takes every precaution, the woodc.o.c.k is equally careful, and does not leave its nest till twilight has draped the earth in the gray mantle of evening. When the humid atmosphere descends slowly on the trees, when the cool breezes of night ascend the valleys, when distant objects begin to a.s.sume a fantastic shape, when the branches of the oak near you, like the arms of a giant, wave to and fro, and seem to ask you to approach; when the withered tree, devoid of leaves, looks like a brigand on the watch, or your comrade, ensconced against it, seems to form a portion of it at a hundred yards off; when, in short, the sportsman can see only a few yards before him, then is the moment that the circ.u.mspect and wily woodc.o.c.k leaves its abode, and pays a nocturnal visit to his friends; and man, his enemy, and still more cunning, is on the alert. The sport which we are about to describe, and which does not last longer than from thirty to forty minutes, has something particularly taking in it. At the close of day a universal silence reigns in the forest, and every sportsman is at his post with bated breath, and eyes dilated as wide as a woman's listening to a neighbouring gossip's tale, when, all at once--pray note this well, reader--a little fly, which plays a prominent part in all sport _a l'affut_ (in ambush)--a little fly, about the size of a pea, regularly makes its appearance, and wheeling round your head, fidgets you for five minutes with its buzzing b-r-r-r-r-r-r-oo. In this way the little insect informs you the woodc.o.c.ks have left the underwood, that they are approaching, and that it hears them coming; and odd or marvellous as it may seem, this signal of the little fly, which never misleads you--this signal which falls upon your ear just at the proper and precise moment, is as certain as that two and two make four. Be not sceptical, and imagine that this is chance; no such thing. Go when you will to the _cha.s.se a l'affut_, station yourself in whichever part of the forest you like, be a.s.sured the fly will be there; it was never otherwise. The question is, who sends the fly? how does it know the sportsman? and by what mysterious chronometer does it regulate with such exactness its movements? _Chi lo sa?_ He who doth not let a sparrow fall to the ground without He willeth it. Equally incomprehensible is the departure of this little insect, which, the concert over, and when you are thoroughly on the _qui vive_, ceases its buzz, and is heard no more. At this very moment, the silence in which you have till then remained is suddenly broken by shouts of "They come! they come!" quickly followed by bang, bang, bang along the glade; and here indeed they are, at first by twos and threes, and then a compact flight, whirling along with appealing cries of love, fluttering, and flapping their wings, and pursuing one another from bush to bush. They show now neither fear nor circ.u.mspection, and crazy, blind, and deaf, scarcely seem to notice the noise, the flashes, or the cries of the sportsmen. At length all is in complete confusion. They toss and twirl about like great leaves in a hurricane, and finally fly, with their ranks somewhat diminished, to their several homes. This sport lasts but a short half-hour; after which, the woodc.o.c.ks having said all they had to say, made and accepted their engagements for the following day, vanish as if by magic, like the puff of a cigar, a shadow, or a royal promise, and the same silence that preceded their arrival reigns once more in the forest. No gun is loaded after their departure; the sportsmen a.s.semble, count the dead, never so numerous, as one might suppose, and having bagged them, also retire from the scene. I have known one person kill four couple of woodc.o.c.ks in this manner, but it was quite an exceptional case; two or three is nearer the usual number. Chance, as in war, in marriage, in everything, is frequently the secret of success; but if you are not cool and collected, and handy with your gun, you will scarce carry a _salmi_ home to your expectant friends. To the young sportsman, the novelty, confusion, and hubbub of these evening shooting-parties are perfectly bewildering; Parisian c.o.c.kneys, above all, are quite beside themselves, shutting first one eye and then the other, firing, of course, without having taken any aim, and eventually beating a retreat without a feather in their game-bags. But to the veteran, this fevered half-hour, this brief _cha.s.se_, is most delightful; everything conspires to make it lively and exciting. The party, ten or twelve jolly dogs, have generally dined together, and the onslaught over, they all return by the pale moonlight, shoulder to shoulder, singing s.n.a.t.c.hes of some old hunting-song, the stars overhead and the woodc.o.c.ks on their backs. A young Parisian and college friend of mine, Adolphe Gustave de----, very rich and very witty, whom, after many unsuccessful attempts, I induced to leave the capital, and pa.s.s six months with me in the deserts, as he called them, of Le Morvan, loved this species of sport intensely, though he never shot anything. His bag, however, was always better filled than that of any of his comrades, for though a wretched shot, he had the wit to stand near a good one, and as he was wonderfully quick with his legs, eyes, and fingers, he was constantly picking up his neighbour's birds, vowing all the time they were his own shooting.

CHAPTER XI.