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MR. PUNCH WITH ROD AND GUN

Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected
without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have
been retained as printed. Words printed in italics are noted with
underscores: _italics_.

PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR

Edited by J. A. HAMMERTON

Designed to provide in a series of volumes, each complete in itself, the
cream of our national humour, contributed by the masters of comic
draughtsmanship and the leading wits of the age to "Punch", from its
beginning in 1841 to the present day

[Illustration]

[Illustration: A FEAT OF AGILITY.--_Voice from the Bow_ (_to Binks, who
is trying to adjust the moorings, and has arrived at the happy moment
when he is doubtful whether he will stay with the pole or return to the
punt_). "Now then, you idiot, keep still! I've got a nibble!"]

MR. PUNCH WITH ROD AND GUN

THE HUMOURS OF FISHING AND SHOOTING

[Illustration]

_WITH 193 ILLUSTRATIONS_

BY
CHARLES KEENE, JOHN LEECH,
PHIL MAY, GEORGE DU MAURIER,
L. RAVEN-HILL, C. SHEPPERSON,
CECIL ALDIN, BERNARD PARTRIDGE,
W. J. HODGSON, A. S. BOYD,
TOM BROWNE, REGINALD CLEAVER,
CHARLES PEARS, H. M. BROCK, AND OTHERS.

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT WITH THE PROPRIETORS OF "PUNCH"

[Illustration]

THE EDUCATIONAL BOOK CO. LTD.

THE PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR

_Twenty-five volumes, crown 8vo, 192 pages fully illustrated_

LIFE IN LONDON
COUNTRY LIFE
IN THE HIGHLANDS
SCOTTISH HUMOUR
IRISH HUMOUR
COCKNEY HUMOUR
IN SOCIETY
AFTER DINNER STORIES
IN BOHEMIA
AT THE PLAY
MR. PUNCH AT HOME
ON THE CONTINONG
RAILWAY BOOK
AT THE SEASIDE
MR. PUNCH AFLOAT
IN THE HUNTING FIELD
MR. PUNCH ON TOUR
WITH ROD AND GUN
MR. PUNCH AWHEEL
BOOK OF SPORTS
GOLF STORIES
IN WIG AND GOWN
ON THE WARPATH
BOOK OF LOVE
WITH THE CHILDREN

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

PREFACE

As a fisherman MR. PUNCH is in the best of his humours. He makes merry
over the weaknesses of those who follow the craft of Old Izaak, always
with the slyest of genial manners. The angler's habit of exaggerating
the size of his catch--his patience or his impatience when the fish
won't bite--the conscious or unconscious ridicule he has to endure from
onlookers when he is unsuccessful--the proverbial thirst that attacks
the fisherman, whether he catches anything or not--MR. PUNCH has a keen
eye for all such incidentals and presents them so jovially that nobody
laughs over them more heartily than his victims themselves do.

[Illustration]

Leech, Charles Keene, Phil May, Du Maurier, Raven-Hill, Bernard
Partridge, G. D. Armour--most of the best-known PUNCH artists, old and
new, have revelled in the humours of both fishing and shooting.

[Illustration: "POTTING SHRIMPS"]

He gets as much laughter out of those who handle the gun. The infinite
variety of jokes he cracks about the bad shot, the man who can't hit the
birds, or is always hitting the dogs or his companion guns, is amazing.
He does not spare the lady shooter, and jests of the peril in which the
rest of the field are placed when she is out after the birds or rabbits;
and he gets a good deal of fun out of the Frenchman's alien notion of
sport.

[Illustration]

OBSERVATIONS ON GROUND BAIT.--Boys are often taught, though they never
learn, to regard fishing as a cruel amusement, when nevertheless
angling, at least as most commonly practised in the Thames, is
universally admitted to be particularly and pre-eminently the _gentle_
craft.

       *       *       *       *       *

EPITAPH ON AN ANGLER.--"Hooked it."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE DUFFER WITH A SALMON-ROD

FROM "THE CONFESSIONS OF A DUFFER"

No pursuit is more sedentary, if one may talk of a sedentary pursuit,
and none more to my taste, than trout-fishing as practised in the South
of England. Given fine weather, and a good novel, nothing can be more
soothing than to sit on a convenient stump, under a willow, and watch
the placid kine standing in the water, while the brook murmurs on, and
perhaps the kingfisher flits to and fro. Here you sit and fleet the time
carelessly, till a trout rises. Then, indeed, duty demands that you
shall crawl in the manner of the serpent till you come within reach of
him, and cast a fly, which usually makes him postpone his dinner-hour.
But he will come on again, there is no need for you to change your
position, and you can always fill your basket easily--with irises and
marsh-marigolds.

Such are our country contents, but woe befall the day when I took to
salmon-fishing. The outfit is expensive, "half-crown flees" soon mount
up, especially if you never go out without losing your fly-book. If you
buy a light rod, say of fourteen feet, the chances are that it will not
cover the water, and a longer rod requires in the fisherman the strength
of a Sandow. You need wading-breeches, which come up nearly to the neck,
and weigh a couple of stone. The question has been raised, can one swim
in them, in case of an accident? For _one_, I can answer, he can't. The
reel is about the size of a butter-keg, the line measures hundreds of
yards, and the place where you fish for salmon is usually at the utter
ends of the earth. Some enthusiasts begin in February. Covered with
furs, they sit in the stern of a boat, and are pulled in a funereal
manner up and down Loch Tay, while the rods fish for themselves. The
angler's only business is to pick them up if a salmon bites, and when
this has gone on for a few days, with no bite, influenza, or a hard
frost with curling, would be rather a relief. This kind of thing is not
really angling, and a Duffer is as good at it as an expert.

Real difficulties and sufferings begin when you reach the
Cruach-na-spiel-bo, which sounds like Gaelic, and will serve us as a
name for the river. It is, of course, extremely probable that you pay a
large rent for the right to gaze at a series of red and raging floods,
or at a pale and attenuated trickle of water, murmuring peevishly
through a drought. But suppose, for the sake of argument, that the water
is "in order," and only running with deep brown swirls at some thirty
miles an hour. Suppose also, a large presumption, that the Duffer does
not leave any indispensable part of his equipment at home. He arrives at
the stream, and as he detests a gillie, whose contempt for the Duffer
breeds familiarity, he puts up his rod, selects a casting line, knots on
the kind of fly which is locally recommended, and steps into the water.
Oh, how cold it is! I begin casting at the top of the stream, and step
from a big boulder into a hole.

[Illustration]

Stagger, stumble, violent bob forwards, recovery, trip up, and here one
is in a sitting position in the bed of the stream. However, the high
india-rubber breeks have kept the water out, except about a pailful,
which gradually illustrates the equilibrium of fluids in the soles of
one's stockings. However, I am on my feet again, and walking more
gingerly, though to the spectator my movements suggest partial
intoxication. That is because the bed of the stream is full of boulders,
which one cannot see, owing to the darkness of the water. There was a
fish rose near the opposite side. My heart is in my mouth. I wade in as
far as I can, and make a tremendous swipe with the rod. A frantic tug
behind, crash, there goes the top of the rod! I am caught up in the root
of a pine-tree, high up on the bank at my back. No use in the language
of imprecation. I waddle out, climb the bank, extricate the fly, get out
a spare top, and to work again, more cautiously. Something wrong, the
hook has caught in my coat, between my shoulders. I must get the coat
off somehow, not an easy thing to do, on account of my india-rubber
armour. It is off at last. I cut the hook out with a knife, making a big
hole in the coat, and cast again. That was over him! I let the fly
float down, working it scientifically. No response. Perhaps better look
at the fly. Just my luck, I have cracked it off!

Where is the fly-book? Where indeed? A feverish search for the fly-book
follows--no use: it is not in the basket, it is not in my pocket; must
have fallen out when I fell into the river. No good in looking for it,
the water is too thick, I _thought_ I heard a splash. Luckily there are
some flies in my cap, it looks knowing to have some flies in one's cap,
and it is not so easy to lose a cap without noticing it, as to lose most
things. Here is a big Silver Doctor that may do as the water is thick. I
put one on, and begin again casting over where that fish rose. By
George, there he came at me, at least I think it must have been at me, a
great dark swirl, "the purple wave bowed over it like a hill," but he
never touched me. Give him five minutes law, the hook is sure to be well
fastened on, need not bother looking at that again. Five minutes take a
long time in passing, when you are giving a salmon a rest. Good times
and bad times and all times pass, so here goes. It is correct to begin a
good way above him and come down to him. I'm past him; no, there is a
long heavy drag under water, I get the point up, he is off like a shot,
while I stand in a rather stupid attitude, holding on. If I cannot get
out and run down the bank, he has me at his mercy. I do stagger out,
somehow, falling on my back, but keeping the point up with my right
hand. No bones broken, but surely he is gone! I begin reeling up the
line, with a heavy heart, and try to lift it out of the water. It won't
come, he is here still, he has only doubled back. Hooray! Nothing so
nice as being all alone when you hook a salmon. No gillie to scream out
contradictory orders. He is taking it very easy, but suddenly he moves
out a few yards, and begins jiggering, that is, giving a series of short
heavy tugs. They say he is never well hooked, when he jiggers. The rod
thrills unpleasantly in my hands, I wish he wouldn't do that. It is very
disagreeable and makes me very nervous. Hullo! he is off again
up-stream, the reel ringing like mad: he gets into the thin water at the
top, and jumps high in the air. He is a monster. Hullo! what's that
splash? The reel has fallen off, it was always loose, and has got into
the water. How am I to act now? He is coming back like mad, and all the
line is loose, and I can't reel up. I begin pulling at the line to bring
up the reel, but the reel only lets the line out, and now he's off
again, down stream this time, and I after him, and the line running out
at both ends at once, and now my legs get entangled in it, it is twisted
all round me. He runs again and jumps, the line comes back in my face,
all slack, something has given. It is the hook, it was not knotted on
firmly to start with. He flings himself out of the water once more to be
sure that he is free, and I sit down and gnaw the reel. Had ever anybody
such bad fortune? But it is just my luck!

I go back to the place where the reel fell in, and by pulling cautiously
I extract it from the stream. It shan't come off again; I tie it on with
the leather lace of one of my brogues. Then I reel up the slack, and put
on another fly, out of my cap--a Popham. Then I fish down the rest of
the pool. Near the edge, in the slower part of the water, there is a
long slow draw; before I can lift the point of the rod, a salmon jumps
high out of the water at me,--and is gone! I never struck him, was too
much taken aback at the moment; did not expect him then. Thank goodness,
the hook is not off this time.

The next stream is very deep, strong and narrow; the best chance is
close in on my side. By Jove! here he is, he took almost beside the
rock. He sails leisurely out into the strength of the stream; if he will
come up, I can manage him, but if he goes down, the water is very swift
and broken, there are big boulders, and then a sheer wall of rock
difficult to pass in cold blood, and then the Big Pool. He insists on
going down; I hold hard on him, and refuse line. But he leaps, and
then--well he _will_ have it; down he rushes, I after him, over the
stones, scrambling along the rocky face; great heavens! _the top joint
of the rod is loose_; I did not tie it on, thought it would hold well
enough. But down it runs, right down the line; it must be touching the
fish. It is; he does not like it, he jiggers like a mad thing, rushes
across the Big Pool, nearly on to the opposite bank. Why won't the line
run? The line is entangled in my bootlace. He is careering about; I feel
that I am trembling like a leaf. There, I knew it would happen; he is
off with my last casting-line, hook and all. A beauty he was, clear as
silver and fresh from the sea. Well, there is nothing for it but a walk
back to the house. I have lost one fly-book, two hooks, a couple of
casting-lines, three salmon, a top joint, and I have torn a great hole
in my coat. On changing my dress before lunch, I find my fly-book in my
breast pocket, where I had not thought of looking for it somehow. Then
the rain comes, and there is not another fishing day in my fortnight.
Still, it decidedly was "one crowded hour of glorious life," while it
lasted. The other men caught four or five salmon apiece; it is their red
letter day. It is marked in black in my calendar.

       *       *       *       *       *

To WELL-INFORMED PISCATORIALS.--_Query._ What sort of fish is a Nod?

_Note._ A Nod is a sea-fish, and is, probably, of the limpet tribe. This
we gather from our knowledge of the Periwinkle, known in polite circles
as the 'Wink. The value of the Nod has come down to us in the form of an
old proverb, "A Nod is as good as a 'Wink," and this no doubt originated
the query to which we have satisfactorily replied.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "What bait are yer usin', Billie?"

"Cheese."

"What are yer tryin' ter catch--mice?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "A SALMON TAKING A FLY"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: TRIALS OF A NOVICE.--_Friend_ (_in the distance_).
"Enjoying it, old chap?"

_Novice._ "_Rather!_"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Diminutive Nursemaid_ (_to angler, who has not had a
bite for hours_). "Oh, please, sir, do let baby see you catch a fish!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "NOT PROVEN."--_Presbyterian Minister._ "Don't you know
it's wicked to catch fish on the Sawbath?!"

_Small Boy_ (_not having had a rise all the morning_). "Wha's catchin'
fesh?!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Old Gent_ (_who has recently purchased the property_).
"Now, don't you boys know that nobody can catch fish in this stream
except with my--er--a--special permit?"

_Youthful Angler._ "Get away! Why, me and this 'ere kid's catched scores
of 'em wi' a worrum!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Angler_ (_after landing his tenth--reading notice_).
"The man who wrote that sign couldn't have been using the right bait!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MISPLACED SYMPATHY.--"Well? Have you caught any fish,
Billy?"

"Well, I _really_ caught _two_! But they were quite young, poor little
things, and so they _didn't know how to hold on_!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: TRIALS OF A NOVICE

_Angler._ "Hush! Keep _back_! Keep _back_! I had a beautiful rise just
then; shall get another directly."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: DREADFUL SITUATION!

_Party in Waders_ (_on the shallower side, with nice trout on_). "Now
then, you idiot, bring me the net, can't you, or he'll be off in a
second!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "Deuced odd, Donald, I can't get a fish over seven
pounds, when they say Major Grant above us killed half a dozen last week
that turned twenty pounds apiece!"

_Donald._ "Aweel, sir, it's no that muckle odds i'th' sawmon,--but thae
fowk up the watter is bigger leears than we are doon here!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "ONE GOOD TURN," ETC.--_City Man_ (_to one of his clerks
he finds fishing in his ornamental water_). "Look here, Smithers, I've
no objection to giving you a day now and then 'to attend your aunt's
funeral'--but I think you might send some of the fish up to the
house!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MISSED.--_Angus._ "Eh, man, that wass a splendid cod! If
we had gotten that cod, noo, we micht ha' been ha'ein' a dram."

_Mr. Smith_ (_from Glasgow_). "Indeed, and ye would, Angus."

_Bauldry._ "Mebbe, Maister Smuth, if we wad have had a dram afore ye
wass lettin' doon yer line, we micht have grappit that muckle fush!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Friend._ "Hullo, old chappie! Fallen in?"

_Dripping Angler._ "You don't suppose this is a perspiration, do you?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE GENTLE CRAFTSMAN (?).--_Irascible Angler_ (_who
hasn't had a rise all day_). "There!"--(_Throwing his fly-book into the
stream, with a malediction_)--"Take your choice!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: UNLUCKY.--_American Cousin_ (_last day of season_). "What
sport? 'Guess I've been foolin' around all day with a twenty-five-dollar
pole, slinging fourteen-cent baits at the end of it, and haven't caught
a darned fish!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "THERE'S MANY A SLIP," ETC.--Waggles saw a splendid
three-pound trout feeding in a quiet place on the Thames one evening
last week. Down he comes the next night, making sure of him! But some
other people had seen him too!!]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Contemplative Man_ (_in punt_). "I don't so much care
about the sport, it's the delicious repose I enjoy so."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MENACE

_Little Angler_ (_to her refractory bait_). "Keep still, you tiresome
little thing! If you don't leave off skriggling, I'll throw you away,
and take another!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A BLANK DAY

_Old Gent_ (_greeting friend_). "Hullo, Jorkins! 'Been fishing? What did
you catch?"

_Jorkins_ (_gloomily_). "Ha'-past six train home!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: AN OBVIOUSLY UNKIND INQUIRY

_Brown_ (_to Jones, who has, for the first time, been trying his hand at
fishing from a boat_). "Well, old chap, what sort o' sport?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SEIZING HIS OPPORTUNITY

_The Major_ (_on his way to try for the big trout, and pondering on his
fly-book_). "Now I wonder what he'll take? What d'you say, Smithers,
eh?"

_Smithers_ (_pulling up with alacrity_). "Take, sir? Well, sir, thanky,
sir, sup o' whisky, sir, for choice!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: CONSCIENTIOUS FLATTERY.--_Boatman._ "I canna mind a finer
fesh for its size!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: WET AND DRY.--_Careful Wife._ "Are you very wet, dear?"

_Ardent Angler_ (_turning up his flask_). "No, dry as a
lime-kiln--haven't had a drop these two hours!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: DRY-FLY ENTOMOLOGY.--(Scene--_The banks of a Hampshire
stream in the grayling season_). _Angler_ (_the rise having abruptly
ceased_). "I think they're taking a _siesta_, Thompson."

_Keeper._ "I dessay they are, sir, but any other fly with a touch o' red
in it would do as well."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: EGOMANIA.--(Scene--_The Bar Parlour of the "Little
Peddlington Arms" during a shower._) _Little Peddlingtonian_ (_handing
newspaper to stranger from London_). "Have you seen that account of our
fishing competition in the _Little Peddlington Gazette_, sir?"

"No, I'm afraid I've not!"

"It's a _very_ interesting article, sir. It mentions my name several
times!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: BOTTOM FISHING.--_Piscator No. 1_ (_miserably_). "Now,
Tom, _do_ leave off. It isn't of any use, and it's getting quite dark."

_Piscator No. 2._ "Leave off!! What a precious disagreeable chap you
are! You come out for a day's pleasure, and you're already wanting to go
home!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: TRIALS OF A NOVICE.--_Unfeeling Passer-by._ "Say, mister!
Are you fly-fishing, or 'eaving the lead?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Piscator, Senior._ "What! yer want to chuck it up jus
because we never catches nothing. Why, I'd like to know how yer proposes
to spend the remainder of yer 'olidays, eh?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A BROAD HINT

_Piscator._ "Yes, I like a day at this time of year. Get all the _water
to myself_, you see."

_Yokel._ "Ah! And mayhap have a sup o' the whisky to spare for somebody
else, governor?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Tom_ (_writing_).--"I say, Bob, I'm rubbing in the local
colour for the benefit of the folk at home--could you help me to some
correct _fishing_ expressions--just to give the thing an atmosphere?"

_Bob._ "I've heard a lot one time and another, old man, but the only one
I remember is--_'Pass the flask'!_"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "MIGHT BE WORSE!"--_First Jolly Angler_ (_peckish after
their walk_). "Got the sandwiches and----"

_Second Jolly Angler_ (_diving into creel_). "Oh, yes, here they are,
all right, and here's the whisk--but--tut-t-t, by Jove!--I've forgotten
the fishing-tackle!!"

_First Jolly Angler._ "Oh, ne' mind--we'll get along quite well without
_that_!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

REBUS IN ARDUIS

    Tell me, stranger, ere I perish,
      Of the fish men call the trout,
    Ere I lose the hopes I cherish,
      Summer in and summer out,
    Hopes of hooking one and landing
      Him before the day is done,
    Waist deep in the water standing,
      From the dawn to set of sun.

    Tell me, is his belly yellow?
      _Is_ he spotted red and black?
    _Does_ he look a splendid fellow
      When you turn him on his back?
    Is there any fly can rise him,
      Any hook can hold him tight?
    Is one able to surprise him
      Any time from morn to night?

    Stranger, years I've passed in trying
      Every artifice and lure,
    Standing, crawling, wading, lying,
      Casting clean and long and sure.
    Empty yet remains my basket,
      Cramped and weary grows my fist,
    Stranger, in despair I ask it,
      Does the trout in truth exist?

       *       *       *       *       *

HAGIOLOGY.--_Patron of a Fishmarket._--St. Polycarp.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Encouraging Prospect._--_Piscator Juvenis._ "Any sport,
sir?"

_Piscator Senex._ "Oh, yes; very good sport."

_P.J._ "Bream?"

_P.S._ "No!"

_P.J._ "Perch?"

_P.S._ "No!"

_P.J._ "What sport, then?"

_P.S._ "Why, keeping clear of the weeds!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: TEACHING THE TEACHER.--_New Curate._ "Now, boy, if, in
defiance of that notice, _I_ were to bathe here, what do you suppose
would happen?"

_Boy._ "You'd come out a great lot dirtier than you went in!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "SMALL MERCIES."--_First Jolly Angler_ (_with empty
creel_). "Well, we've had a very pleasant day! What a delightful pursuit
it is!"

_Second Ditto_ (_with ditto_). "Glorious! I sha'n't forget that nibble
we had just after lunch, as long as I live!"

_Both_ "Ah!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "VERY LIKELY A WHALE"

_Lady Visitor_ (_who has been listening to Piscator's story_). "I didn't
know that trout grew as large as that!"

_Piscator's Wife._ "Oh, yes, they do--after the story has been told a
few times!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

A REFLECTION BY AN ANGLER.--Nature's aristocracy. Mortal man being but a
worm, is therefore by nature of _gentle_ birth.

       *       *       *       *       *

NET PROFIT.--A fisherman's.

       *       *       *       *       *

PISCATORIAL.--Shakespearian angler's song to his bait: "Sleep, gentle,
sleep."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: OUR FRIEND BRIGGS CONTEMPLATES A DAY'S FISHING.--He is
here supposed to be getting his tackle in order, and trying the
management of his running line.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Robson._ "Do you think fishes can hear?"

_Dobson._ "I should _hope_ not. Listen to old Smith--he's smashed his
rod!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Lambertson (who is nervous, and weighs about a cart-load
of bricks, to Dapperton, who has just nipped across, and weighs about
nine stone nothing)._ "Oh, yes! All very fine for you to say, 'Don't
dwell on it.' B--B--BUT----"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE GENTLE CRAFT

(_By Our Own Trout_)

    How gentle is the fisherman who sits beside the brook,
    And firmly puts the wriggling worm upon the pointed hook
    How pleasant for the hapless trout to find, from some strange cause,
    The fly conceals a something that makes havoc with its jaws!

    Dame Juliana Berners wrote a book, in which she said
    The blessing of St. Peter rests upon the angler's head;
    She bid him not be "ravenous in taking game,"--I wish
    She'd ever asked if he deserved the blessings of the fish.

    We were a happy family, as merry as could be,
    "Diversified with crimson stains," as Pope has said. Ah me!
    There came the cruel fisherman, his flies had deadly gleam,
    And not a soul remains but me to mourn within the stream.

    What recked my little troutlets of the Palmers, Spinners, Duns,
    They headlong rushed, and then got caught, my innocent young sons!
    They're cooked--excuse an old trout's tear!--but hard it is to feel
    A monster's ta'en your family for matutinal meal.

    The "honest angler," Walton, cried, and maundered night and day,
    But Byron puts the matter in a very different way;
    He said that Isaac should have hook fixed firmly "in his gullet,"
    And oh! that I might be the trout that he suggests should pull it.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Brown (enthusiastic angler, who has brought his friend
and guest out for a "delightful day's fishing")._ "Confound it! I've
left them--I say, old chap, got any flies with you?"

_Jones (not enthusiastic, and a non-smoker, wearily)._ "Flies!!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: CATS WHO CATCH CAN

Uncle George, just returned from a morning's fishing, recounts how he
landed some of the "most magnificent trout ever taken in these waters,"
and his audience anticipate much satisfaction from the contents of his
basket.]

[Illustration: Meanwhile the contents of Uncle George's basket are being
fully appreciated in the hall!]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Lunatic (suddenly popping his head over wall)._ "What
are you doing there?"

_Brown._ "Fishing."

_Lunatic._ "Caught anything?"

_Brown._ "No."

_Lunatic._ "How long have you been there?"

_Brown._ "Six hours."

_Lunatic._ "_Come inside!_"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A GENTLE HINT.--_Mr. Giglamps (who has been caught by
keeper with some fish in his basket under taking size)._ "Oh--er--well,
you see, fact is, my glasses--er--magnify a good deal. Make things look
larger than they really are!"

_Keeper (about to receive smaller tip than meets the occasion)._ "Ah!
makes yer put down a shillin' when yer means 'alf-a-crown, sometimes, I
dessay, sir!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: PAYING TOO DEAR FOR HIS WHISTLE.--_Donald._ "E--h, sir,
yon's a gran' fesh ye've gotten a haud o'!"

_The Laird._ "Oo, aye, a gran' fesh enoo, but I'd be gay an' glad if I
saw my twa-and-saxpenny flee weel oot o' his mooth!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Jones_ (_the adventurous_). "It--it's gettin' almost too
d-deep, I fear, Miss Hookem!"

_Miss Hookem._ "Oh, please do go on! It'll be the fish of my life!"

_Jones_ (_who is not a champion swimmer_). "M-mine too!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

AN ACUTE ANGLER.--The judicious Hooker.

       *       *       *       *       *

ANGLER'S MOTTO.--_Carpe diem._ A carp a day.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE ANGLE OF INCIDENCE.--When you're fishing, and tumble into the water.

       *       *       *       *       *

WALTON'S LIFE OF HOOKER.--Is this another name for Izaak Walton's
_Complete Angler_?

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HINTS TO BEGINNERS--SEA FISHING

In fishing for conger eels, it is sometimes convenient to have a spare
boat.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: RETURNED EMPTY.--_Old Mayfly_ (_who had dropped his flask
further down stream, and has just had it returned to him by honest
rustic_). "Dear me! Thank you! Thank you!" (_Gives him a shilling._)
"Don't know what I should ha' done without it!" (_Begins to unscrew
top._) "May I offer you a----"

_Honest Rustic._ "Well, thank y', sir, but me and my mate, not seein' a
howner about, we've ta'en what there were inside."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HINTS TO BEGINNERS.--When casting with a fly rod, be sure
to get your line well out behind you.]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE COMPLEAT DUFFER

[Illustration: Hooking a lobster]

        I have fished in every way,
          Fished on every kind of day,
    But my basket still remains _in statu quo_,
          Not a stickleback will rise,
          Not a gudgeon as a prize
          To the quite amazing flies
                That I throw.

          When I try the purling brook
          Many trout just have a look
    At my fly, or at the minnow that I spin,
          With fishy leer they squirm
          Off, and my belief is firm
          That I'd better use a worm
                On a pin.

          Wherever I get leave,
          Still I fish from morn to eve,
    Though I never--hardly ever--rightly cast,
          With a body soaking wet,
          With a mind intent and set
          On success achieving yet
                At the last.

          In my coat of wondrous tweed,
          And on every wandering weed,
    Hooks and flies unnamed invariably I fix.
          _Here_ I cannot land a fish--
          I can only hope and wish
          I may creel a goodly dish
                In the Styx.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: RELIEF.--_Piscator_ (_about the end of a very bad day_).
"Donald, hang the boat here a bit, we may get a rise."

_Donald._ "Hang!"--(_Giving way_)--"I shall tamm the boat if you will,
and the trouts--and the loch too!"

[_Feels better!_

]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Catching her-ring]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Deep C fishing]

       *       *       *       *       *

_Q._ What is the difference between a dunce and an angler?

_A._ One hates his books and the other baits his hooks.

       *       *       *       *       *

ENTHUSIASTIC.--That indefatigable angler, Trollinson, never forgets his
craft. Even in writing to you, he is sure to drop a line.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Catching min'nose on the bridge]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: First instance of the cure of soles (_Vide_ Life of St.
Anthony)]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SUPERB

_Podgson (a recently joined disciple of the gentle craft)._ "Ah, now I
flatter myself that I played that fellow with considerable skill, and
landed him without the net, too!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "I'll punch your 'ead, directly, if you don't leave orff.
How do yer think the what's-a-names 'll bite, if you keep on a splashin'
like that?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

AN ORIGINAL CORNER MAN.--_The Complete Angler._

       *       *       *       *       *

A BROTHER OF THE ANGLE.--A fellow mathematician.

       *       *       *       *       *

When is a fisherman like a Hindoo? When he loses his cast.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Irate Landowner_ (_to Angler_). "Hi, you, sir! This is
_my_ water. You can't fish here."

_Angler._ "Oh, all right. Whose is that water up there round the bend?"

_Irate Landowner._ "Don't know: not mine. But this is."

_Angler._ "Very well. I'll wait till that flows down here!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "MANY A SLIP."--_Boisterous Friend_ (_bursting suddenly
through the shrubbery, and prodding proprietor with his umbrella_).
"Hul-lo, Hackles, my boy! Ketching lots o' salmon!"

_Angler._ "There! Tut-t-t-t--confound you! I should ha' settled that
fish if you hadn't come bothering about! Three people coming to dinner
without notice, and only chops in the house! You'd better go and tell my
wife what you've done"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: PISCATORIAL POLITENESS. (_From a Yorkshire
stream._)--_Privileged Old Keeper_ (_to member of fishing club, of
profuse and ruddy locks, who is just about to try for the big trout, a
very wary fish_). "Keep yer head doon, sir, keep yer head doon!"
(_Becoming exasperated._) "'Ord bou it, man, keep yer head doon! Yer m't
as weel come wi' a torch-leet procession to tak' a fish!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SOMETHING LIKE PRESERVATION.--_Irate Individual._ "Are
you aware, sir, that you are fishing in preserved water?"

_'Arry_ (_not quite so innocent as he would appear_). "Preserved water!
And is all the fish _pickled_, then? Bless'd if I've seen any live 'uns
about."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Mrs. Brown._ "Well, I must be going in a minute."

_Mr. B._ "What for?"

_Mrs. B._ "Why, I forgot to order the fish for dinner."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MORE ORNAMENTAL THAN USEFUL.--"Just give that bit o' lead
a bite atween yer teeth, will yer, matie?"

"Ain't ye got no teeth of yer own?"

"I got some, but there ain't none of 'em opposite one another."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ANTICIPATION.--_Piscator_ (_short-sighted; he had been
trolling all day for a big pike that lay in a hole about here_). "Quick,
Jarvis--the landing-net--I've got him!"

_Jarvis._ "Ah, sir, it's only an old fryin'-pan! But that will be
useful, y'know, sir, when we do catch him!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

A PUNT POEM

        I'm a fisherman bold,
        And I don't mind the cold,
    Nor care about getting wet through!
        I don't mind the rain,
        Or rheumatical pain,
    Or even the tic-douloureux!

        I'm a fisherman damp,
        Though I suffer from cramp,
    Let weather be foul or be fine,
        From morning till night
        Will I wait for a bite,
    And never see cause to repine!

        I'm a fisherman glad,
        And I never am sad;
    I care not to shoot or to hunt;
        I would be quite content
        If my whole life were spent
    From morning to night in a punt!

        I'm a fisherman brave,
        And I carol a stave
    In praise of the rod and the line!
        From the bank, or a boat,
        Will I gaze on my float--
    What life is so happy as mine?

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Big Scotchman._ "Confound these midges!"

_Little Cockney._ "Why, they 'aven't touched me!"

_Big Scotchman._ "Maybe they have na noticed ye yet!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE GREATEST ANGLE OF ELEVATION.--Fishing off the top of Shakespeare's
Cliff.

       *       *       *       *       *

BAIT AND WHITEBAIT

    The "gentle" craft some people angling name;
    The "lobworm" might more truly call the same.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _First Angler_ (_to country boy_) "I say, my lad just go
to my friend on the bridge there, and say I should be much obliged to
him if he'd send me some bait."]

[Illustration: _Country Boy_ (_to second angler, in the Eastern Counties
language_). "Tha' there bo' sahy he want a wurrum!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LAY OF A SUCCESSFUL ANGLER

    The dainty artificial fly
      Designed to catch the wily trout,
    Full loud _laudabunt alii_,
      And I will join, at times, no doubt,
    But yet my praise, without pretence,
    Is not from great experience.

    I talk as well as anyone
      About the different kinds of tackle,
    I praise the Gnat, the Olive Dun,
      Discuss the worth of wings and hackle
    I've flies myself of each design,
    No book is better filled than mine.

    But when I reach the river's side
      Alone, for none of these I wish,
    No victim to a foolish pride,
      My object is to capture fish;
    Let me confess, then, since you ask it--
    A worm it is which fills my basket!

    O brown, unlovely, wriggling worm,
      On which with scorn the haughty look,
    It is thy fascinating squirm
      Which brings the fattest trout to book,
    From thee unable to refrain,
    Though flies are cast for him in vain!

    Deep gratitude to thee I feel,
      And then, perhaps, it's chiefly keen,
    When rival anglers view my creel,
      And straightway turn a jealous green;
    And, should they ask me--"What's your fly?"
    "A fancy pattern," I reply!

       *       *       *       *       *
[Illustration: Catching crabs and flounders in the Thames]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Catching wails at Whippingham]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Catching soles and skate on the (sea) Serpentine]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Catching whiting from the Strand]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SOMETHING LIKE A CATCH.--_Mrs. Binks_ (_sick of it_).
"Really, John! How can you bear to spend your time whip--whip--whipping
at the stream all day long and never a single fish taking the least
notice of you?"

_John._ "Ah, but think o' the delight, Maria, when you do get a fish!
Lor' bless us, my dear, have you forgotten the day when you hooked
me?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: FROM DEE-SIDE.--_Piscator._ "Yes, my boy, ain't he a
beauty? Forty pounds--three foot eight from tail to snout--fresh run!
I'm going to have him photographed, with a full-grown man standing by,
to show the proportions. By the way"--(_faintly_)--"would--er--would
_you_ mind being the _man_?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Imperturbable Boatman._ "Haud up yer rod, man! Ye have
'm! ye have 'm!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

ANECDOTE BY IZAAK WALTON.--One Piscator, whom I will not further name,
had a certain acquaintance who, through the credit he had gotten by his
wealth, worth, and wit, came to be made a magistrate. Whereupon Piscator
goes me to the river and catches a fish, which having brought home, he
sends to the new-made justice with a note, saying, "Inasmuch, sir, as
you are now promoted to the condition of a beak, I do send you a
perch."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ANGLING EXTRAORDINARY

_Customer_ (_in a great hurry_). "A small box of gentles, please. And
look sharp! I want to catch a 'bus!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

A SPORTIVE SONG

_A Sojourner in North Britain goes Salmon-fishing with a New Young
Woman._

    Far from the busy haunts of men,
      Mid hazel, heather, gorse,
    You are the Beauty of the glen,
      And I the Beast, of course.
    I fetch and carry at your wish,
      I wait your beck and nod,
    And yet your soul is with that fish,
      Your ardour in your rod.

    He struggles hard, gives now a lunge,
      Like boxer in the ring,
    And now he executes a plunge
      That makes your tackle spring;
    And then again he quiet lies,
      As if in cunning thought
    Of how to lose this worst of flies
      That he so gladly caught.

    Anon we see his silver back
      Rush madly up the stream,
    And then he takes another tack,
      An effort that's supreme;
    He tries to leap the rocky wall
      That environs the pool.
    How hot that rush! How low that fall!
      While you are calm and cool.

    You utter not a word; your wrist
      Must surely be of steel;
    For, let your captive turn or twist,
      You never spend the reel.
    But with your eye fast fixed you stand--
      Diana with a hook--
    Determined that good grilse to land,
      And bring your fly to book.

    Well done! He weakens! With the gaff
      I'm ready for the prey.
    And now you give a little laugh
      That means "He must give way!"
    "Look out!" you cry. I do look out,
      And then I lose my head.
    You've missed the fish without a doubt,
      But captured me instead!

       *       *       *       *       *

A POINT OF TRESPASS.--_Irate Owner of this side of water._ "Are you
aware that you are trespassing in this water, young man?"

_Sharp Youth._ "But I'm not in the water, sir."

_Irate Owner_ (_more irate_). "Confound you, but you've just taken a
fish out!"

_Sharp Youth._ "Yes, sir. The fish was trespassing!"

       *       *       *       *       *

_Enthusiastic Fisherman._ "What a bore! Just like my luck. No sooner
have I got my tackle ready, and settled down to a book, than there comes
a confounded bite!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Visitor._ "Are there any fish in this river?"

_Native._ "Fish! I should rather think there was. Why, the water's
simply saturated with 'em!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ANGLING IN THE SERPENTINE.--SATURDAY, P.M.--_Piscator No.
1._ "Had ever a bite, Jim?"

_Piscator No. 2._ "Not yet--I only come here last Wednesday!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A BAD BARGAIN.--No water!--and after having rented a
stream, and travelled five hundred miles, too!!]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Di would go sea-fishing to-day. I went too. She says we
had a grand day, so I suppose we had. At the same time, I don't think it
was quite right to give my lunch to the boatman without asking me
whether I wanted it or no. Di says she'll ask her cousin--hang him!--to
go with her next time.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Irate Angler_ (_waking tramp_). "Why can't you look
after your beast of a dog? It's been and eaten all my lunch."

_Tramp_ (_hungrily_). "What, all the lot, mister! Well, he shouldn't ave
done that if _I_ could 'ave 'elped it!"]

[Illustration: SHAKSPEARIAN MOTTO FOR AUGUST 12

"Now will I hence to seek my lovely moor!"

_Titus Andronicus_, Act II., Sc. 3.

]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE BIRDS AND THE PHEASANT

(_After Longfellow_)

    I shot a partridge in the air,
    It fell in turnips, "Don" knew where;
    For just as it dropped, with my right
    I stopped another in its flight.

    I killed a pheasant in the copse,
    It fell amongst the fir-tree tops;
    For though a pheasant's flight is strong,
    A cock, hard hit, cannot fly long.

    Soon, soon afterwards, in a pie,
    I found the birds in jelly lie;
    And the pheasant, at a fortnight's end,
    I found again in the _carte_ of a friend.

       *       *       *       *       *

ODE ON A DISTANT PARTRIDGE

(_By an Absent-minded Sportsman_)

    Well, I'm blest! I'm pretty nearly
      Speechless, as I watch that bird,
    Saving that I mutter merely
      One concise, emphatic word--
      What that is may be inferred!

    English prose is, to my sorrow,
      Insufficient for the task.
    Would that I could freely borrow
      Expletives from Welsh or Basque--
      One or two is all I ask!

    Failing that, let so-called verses
      Serve to mitigate my grief
    Doggerel now and then disperses
      Agonies that need relief.
      (Missing birds of these is chief!)

    Blankly tramping o'er the stubbles
      Is a bore, to put it mild;
    But, in short, to crown my troubles,
      _One_ mishap has made me riled,
      Driv'n me, like the coveys, wild.

    For at last I flush a partridge,
      Ten yards rise, an easy pot!
    Click. Why, bless me, where's the cartridge?
      Hang it! there, I clean forgot
      Putting _them_ in ere I shot!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "TURN ABOUT."--_George._ "I say, Tom, do take care! You
nearly shot my father then!"

_Tom._ "Sh! Don't say anything, there's a good fellow! Take a shot at
mine!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE FOOL WITH A GUN

(_To the Tune of the "Temptation of St. Anthony"_)

[Illustration: A LITTLE CHECK]

    There are many fools that worry this world,
      Fools old, and fools who're young;
    Fools with fortunes, and fools without,
    Fools who dogmatise, fools who doubt,
    Fools who snigger, and fools who shout,
    Fools who never know what they're about,
      And fools all cheek and tongue;
    Fools who're gentlemen, fools who're cads,
    Fools who're greybeards, and fools who're lads;
    Fools with manias, fools with fads,
    Fools with cameras, fools with tracts,
    Fools who deny the stubbornest facts,
    Fools in theories, fools in acts;
      Fools who write Theosophist books,
      Fools who believe in Mahatmas and spooks;
    Fools who prophesy--races and Tophets--
    Bigger fools who believe in prophets;
    Fools who quarrel, and fools who quack;
    In fact, there are all sorts of fools in the pack,
      Fools fat, thin, short, and tall;
    But of all sorts of fools, the fool with a gun
    (Who points it at someone--of course, "in fun"--
    And fools around till chance murder is done)
      Is the worsest fool of them all!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HIS FIRST PARTRIDGE SHOOT]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SPORTING EXTRAORDINARY--THE OLD DOG POINTS CAPITALLY

"I tell yer wot it is, Sam! If this fool of a dog is a going to stand
still like this here in every field he comes to, we may as well shut up
shop, for we shan't find no partridges!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: TRIALS OF A NOVICE.--"Confess now. Have you ever hit a
haystack, even?"

"Well, of course I have."

"What did you aim at?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE FIRST OF SEPTEMBER

    The First of September, remember
      The day of supremest delight.
    Get ready the cartridge, the partridge
      Must fall in the stubble ere night.

    The breechloader's ready, and steady
      The dog that we taught in old days;
    He's firm to his duty, a beauty
      That cares for but one person's praise.

    He's careful in stubble, no trouble
      In turnips, he's keen as a man;
    But looks on acutely, and mutely
      Seems saying, "Shoot well, if you can!"

    They flash from the cover--what lover
      Of sport does not thrill as they rise
    In feathered apparel? Each barrel
      Kills one, as the swift covey flies.

    So on through the morning, still scorning
      All rest until midday has past,
    When lunch should be present, and pleasant
      That _al fresco_ breaking of fast.

    One pipe, then be doing, pursuing
      The sport that no sport can eclipse;
    So homeward to dinner, a winner
      Of praise from the fairest of lips.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A HUMANE INSTINCT.--_Snob_ (_who has been making himself
very objectionable_). "I say, what do you do with your game?"

_Host._ "Give my friends what they want, and send the rest to market."

_Snob._ "Ah, sell it, do you? With my game, don'tyer-know, I give my
friends some, and send the rest to the hospitals."

_Host._ "And very natural and proper, I'm sure. The only thing I've seen
you shoot to-day was a beater!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Husband._ "Look out, Kitty. There are some birds just in
front of you!"

_Wife_ (_out for the first time_). "Then, for goodness sake, keeper,
call that silly dog of yours! Can't you see he's standing right in my
way?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: AN UNFORTUNATE REMARK.--_Novice_ (_to host, after walking
for two hours under a brilliant sun without seeing a single bird_).
"Grand day, isn't it?"

[_N.B._--_He only meant to lighten the general depression, but he wasn't
invited again._

]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A WISE PRECAUTION

_Sportsman_ (_to his wife, who is rather a wild shot._) "By Jove! Nelly,
you nearly got us again, that time! If you are not more careful, I'll go
home!"

_Old Keeper_ (_sotto voce_). "It's all right, squire. Her bag is full of
nothing but _blank_ 'uns!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "GUNNING WITH A SMELL DOG"

(_B. Jonathan, Esq., having missed a hare, the dog drops to the shot_)

_B. J._ (_scornfully_). "Call that a good dawg? I reckon he ain't worth
candy! When the beast's sitting, he stands and looks at him; and when he
runs away, he lies down and looks at me!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Keeper._ "Would you gentlemen kindly tell me which of
you two is a lord, _as I've been told to give him the best place_."]

       *       *       *       *       *

_Gentleman._ "That looks a well-bred dog."

_Owner._ "I should think he was well-bred. Why, he won't have a bit er
dinner till he's got his collar on!"

       *       *       *       *       *

SS. PATRICK AND PARTRIDGE

    "Now at the birds, me boy, let dhrive!"
      Says Mike, exhorting Dan.
    "That's how we'll keep the game alive,
      By killing all we can!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: DAMAGED GOODS.--_Sportsman_ (_invited to help shoot some
bucks in Mr. Meanman's park, and has just knocked one over_). "By Jove!
what a lovely head! You must let me have that for mounting."

_Mr. Meanman_ (_frightfully indignant_). "What! cut his head off! Why,
man, it would ruin the sale of the carcase!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: UNNECESSARY QUESTIONS.

_Lady_ (_with gun_). "Am I holding the thing right?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _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?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Renting a well-stocked moor]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: 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.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: 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!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Choke bore]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Birds were strong]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE ANATOMY OF SHOOTING

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."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: 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 voila! Qu'il est beau!
The King partridge! Regardez ses plumes! N'est ce pas?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Marking black game]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Small bags--one brace]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "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!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Giving 'em both barrels]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Dropped his bird]

       *       *       *       *       *

SONG OF "THE MISSING SPORTSMAN"

    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!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Brown_ (_after an hour's digging for the ferret_). "Call
this rabbit shootin'? _I_ call it landscape gardening!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "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!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "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!"

[_It came out afterwards the impostor had bagged it at the poulterer's_

]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: 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!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: 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!_"]

       *       *       *       *       *

LE SPORT

["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!_"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _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!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _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."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "Beg pardon, sir! But if you was to aim at his lordship
the next time, I think he'd feel more comforbler, sir!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

LOVE AMONG THE PARTRIDGES

    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!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "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!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HINTS TO BEGINNERS.--Lion hunting. Be quite sure when you
go looking for a lion, that you really want to find one.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE POET GOETH GUNNING

Hot work

"Hare up!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE GROUSE THAT JACK SHOT

(_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_!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: 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!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"WEDDED TO THE MOOR"

    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_!"

       *       *       *       *       *

A HINT IN SEASON

        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.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "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!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

ON A DANGEROUS SHOT

(_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.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: 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?

[_The Third Sportsman is immediately left alone._

       *       *       *       *       *

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."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HIS FIRST BIRD

"Well, I didn't miss _that_ one, at all events!"

"No, sir. They _will_ fly into it, sometimes!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: 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.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: 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!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _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."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "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!_"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: 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!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: 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!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: 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!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: 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!]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

     "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?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Beater_ (_to hare that refuses to leave her form_). "Get
oop, ye lazy little beggar an' join in t' spoort!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: 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!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: 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!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE "CHEEP" OF THE PARTRIDGE

_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._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: 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!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: RATHER STARTLING

"Well, Count! Any sport this morning?"

"Helas! mon ami, very sad sport! I 'ave shot three beautiful misses!"

[_He means he has missed three beautiful shots._

]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HER "FIRST"

_Miss Nimrod._ "Oh, dear! he's pointing! Which end do I shoot at?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: 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.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: 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!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MR. TUBBING'S SHOOTING PONY]

[Illustration: 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'_!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: 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."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: 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!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: 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!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

BALLAD OF THE CUNNING PARTRIDGE

    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.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HINTS TO BEGINNERS.--When going out before daylight after
ducks, waders are advisable. Also, better tell your wife she need not
come down (just when you expect the ducks) and ask if you are sure you
are not getting your feet wet.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A NOVELTY

_Mr. Cylinder_ (_who always uses his host's cartridges_). "What powder
are these loaded with, my boy?"

_Beater._ "Ar doan't rightly know; but ar think they calls it serdlitz
pooder!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Disgusted Keeper_ (_who has just beaten up a brace or so
of pheasants, which young Snookson has missed "clane and clever"--to
dog, which has been "going seek" and "going find" from force of habit_).
"Ah, Ruby, Ruby, bad dog! T' heel, Ruby, t' heel! Ah must apologise for
Ruby, sir. You see, Ruby's been accustomed to pick 'em up!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: An extended tract of moor]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A second laying]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Heavy bags are difficult to secure]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Extract from a private letter._ "Our bag on the first
was _barely_ up to the average, although the mater, Milly, and self were
out to help the men. We hunted in couples and threes, as it is a bit
dull tramping along alone. And as the mater generally foozles her shots,
I did most of her work too. By the way, how absurdly nervous men are
'gunning.'"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MR. MUGGS ON PARTRIDGE DRIVING

"What I like about the modern system of driving is the nice rest you can
have between the beats."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: LITTLE CHICKMOUSE RASHLY ACCEPTS THE OFFER OF A DAY'S
PARTRIDGE-SHOOTING.--_Gamekeeper_ (_to Little C., who has kicked up a
hare_)._ "Now for it, sir!"

_Chickmouse_ (_who finds he can't get over his horror of firearms_)._
"Well--fact is--I'd rather you'd----Look 'ere, you 'old the gun, and
I'll pull the thingummy!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "A HIT! A PALPABLE HIT!"

"Oh, I beg your pardon! I did not see you, sir!"

"See me! Confound it, sir, you can see _through_ me now!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE STATE OF THE GAME.--_Lady Customer._ "How much are
grouse to-day, Mr. Jiblets?"

_Poulterer._ "Twelve shillings a brace, ma'am. Shall I send them----"

_Lady Customer._ "No, you need not send them. My husband's out
grouse-shooting, and he'll call for them as he comes home!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: EDUCATED. (_From a Yorkshire moor_).--_Keeper_ (_to the
Captain, who has missed again, and is letting off steam in
consequence_). "Oh dear! Oh dear! It's hawful to see yer missin' of 'em,
sir; but"--(_with admiration_)--"ye're a scholard i' langwidge, sir!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SELF-CONFIDENCE OUT SHOOTING.--_Nephew._ "Jump, uncle!
I'll clear you!"

[_But he didn't "clear" him, and old Brown says he'll carry the marks to
his grave!_

]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "I don't know what it is, Mark, but I can't hit a bird
to-day!"

"Let's see your gun, sir. Ah!--well, I'd try what you could do _with
some cartridges in it_, if I was you, sir!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: BREAKING IT GENTLY.--_Son of the House_ (_who wishes to
say something polite about our friend's astounding shooting, but who
cannot palter with the truth_). "I should think you were awfully clever
at books, sir!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A TRUE SPORTSMAN

(_A last shot of the season_)

_Old Pothunter._ "Always show mercy, my boy, always show mercy! Much
better to shoot 'em sitting, and save poor things a nasty fall!"

[_Does._

]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: TRIALS OF A NOVICE

_Brown._ "I wish I had the moral courage to go home!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SPORT!--_Cockney Sportsman_ (_eager, but disappointed_).
"I say, my boy, seen any birds this way?"

_'Cute Rustic_ (_likewise anxious to make a bag_). "Oh, a rare lot,
guv'nor--a rare lot--just flew over this 'ere 'edge, and settled in that
'ere field, close to Squire Blank's ricks."

[_Cockney sportsman tips boy a shilling, and goes hopefully after ... a
flock of starlings!_

]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _His Lordship_ (_after missing his tenth rabbit_). "I'll
tell you what it is, Bagster. Your rabbits are _all two inches too
short_, hereabouts!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: PLEASANT FOR HARRY

_Fair Sportswoman._ "Oh, Harry, I feel so excited, I scarcely know what
I am doing!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: BLANK FIRING

_Ancient Sportsman_ (_whose sight is not what it used to be_). "Pick 'em
up, James, pick 'em up! Why don't you pick 'em up?"

_Veteran Keeper._ "'Cause there bean't any down, my lord!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

SPORT IN SPORT

(_Game played by Dumb-Crambo, Junior_)

[Illustration: Cartridges]

       * * *

[Illustration: Stubble and turn-up]

       * * *

[Illustration: Marking down]

       * * *

[Illustration: A breech loader]

       * * *

[Illustration: Hairs and part-ridges were scarce]

       * * *
[Illustration: Full cock]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Boy_ (_after watching old sportsman miss a couple of
rocketers_). "Have you shot often, uncle?"

_Uncle._ "Yes, my boy, a great deal. At one time, in Africa, I used to
live by my gun."

_Boy_ (_thoughtfully_). "Did you? And is that why you're so thin?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Fitz._ "I say, are _all_ your beaters out of the wood?"

_Keeper._ "Yes, sir."

_Fitz._ "Are you sure?"

_Keeper._ "Yes, sir."

_Fitz._ "Have you _counted_ them?"

_Keeper._ "No, sir; but I know they're a'right."

_Fitz._ "Then I've shot a roe deer!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "LE SPORT."--_Keeper._ "Why didn't you fire the other
barrel, m'seer--the other barrel at the last bird?"

_Monsieur Alphonse._ "Bah! I did fire ze odher barrel! I do fire bodt
barrels togezzer! And in my own country I do shoot ze lark at twenty,
twenty-five, and sometimes dirty yards--when he stand quite still! Your
dogs zey make ze birds to flyaway"--(_insinuatingly_)--"and zey must be
fatigued. Here is money. Take zem, and buy zem somezings to eat! Leave
me to make my own dogs myself!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: BEHIND THE SCENES.--_Beater._ "'Ere you are, Mr. Bags,
'ere's another one, but 'e bain't too fresh. I don't think 'e were
killed to-day."

_Keeper_ (_sotto voce_). "'Old your row, stupid! Of course he wasn't. We
always puts a few down where the gov'nor's goin' to stand!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _The Laird_ (_to little Tomkyns, who is being initiated
into the mysteries of deer-stalking_). "Don't move a step.] Lie down
where you are!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

HOW MOSSOO SHOT THE COCK-PHEASANT

(_The Gamekeeper's Story_)

[Illustration]

    He were a sort o' Frenchman, sir,
      And called hisself a Duck:
    I never could make head or tail
      O' that there furrin muck!
    He came to stay wi' Master there.
      And brought his guns and that--
    But bless you, sir! he could na' shoot,
      No more than this here hat!

[Illustration]

    The Master and the Frenchman went
      To shoot the spinney-kivver
    What reaches from the stable-wall
      Right down to that there river.
    A rocketing cock flew up at wunst,
      And Mossoo he fired, and missed--
    How he did swear, and tear his hair,
      And shake his little fist!

    The way that Mossoo danced about,
      It really were a sight!
    He'd grin, and pull his beard, and shout
      And screech with all his might.
    He wore a thing across his nose
      Just like a kind o' shear:
    I think he said he were "my hop"--
      Which means his sight were near.

    Mossoo he yelled, "I see him zere,
      Upon ze stable top!"
    With that he banged off right and left--
      I seed a summat drop;
    I ran to pick up that there bird;
      And 'neath the stable-clock
    I found it sure enow--it were
      Our new gilt weather-cock!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LTD., PRINTERS, LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Mr. Punch With Rod and Gun, by Various

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