assimilating wonderfully with the withered bracken, had rendered her invisible. Even then she went off reluctantly, and there at my feet was the callow brood, newly hatched, a little brown huddle of mottled down and bright frightened eyes. That was my first and last impression of them, for a moment later the mother bird going through the customary performances not far away engaged my eye. It was a matter of seconds only, but when I looked again the chicks were nowhere to be seen. There was a faint rustling on all sides, curiously difficult to locate, a suggestion of movement under the dry fronds where the wind-ripples scarcely penetrated, then perfect stillness as though nothing had ever lived in the bracken.

That is ever the way of game chicks. They trickle out of sight like raindrops, and so marvellous is their aptitude at concealment that the most careful search proves unavailing. It is their great natural safeguard against the swoop of a winged enemy; but even fourfooted hunters cannot always find them on these occasions. I have known a good retriever to walk right over a brood without winding one of the little squatters. They lie so still, and appear to be blessed with a protective lack of scent.

A great deal has been said about the pheasant's sensitiveness to the slightest vibration in the atmosphere, but it is not, I think, generally known that the male bird is one of our surest weather-prophets. Unlike others of his order, he foretells rain not by outcry but by silence. If one walks at roosting-time near plantations where pheasants abound, and hears nothing save the heavy fluttering of wings as the birds seek their perches, it is safe to anticipate unsettled weather. But when the loud korrk-kuk, korrk-kuk resounds through the darkening woods one or more fine days will certainly follow. This is no mere superstition. It holds good, as research will prove; but I can offer no scientific explanation. It is the more curious in that disturbance rather than settled conditions as a rule provokes the familiar crow. Almost anything unusual sets pheasants crowing. Young cocks, vociferate from fright or curiosity, as when they see a dog or fox running in the woods. Brilliant moonlight again is very apt to set them off, and by way of Vol. 241.-No. 478.

B

contrast, they wax uncommonly talkative, I believe, during an eclipse of the sun.

Hen pheasants as a rule roost high among the bare branches. An old cock on the other hand prefers ivy. covered stumps or evergreen shrubs, such as low-growing holly-bushes or laurels. He is also peculiarly partial to an old apple-tree. If there happens to be a half-wild orchard anywhere on his range a cock pheasant is tolerably certain to roost there. Under any conditions he selects scrubby rather than lofty trees, and, unlike the capercailzie and the blackcock, he has no predilection for pine woods. Few English sportsmen, perhaps, know much of the 'caper,' of which Mr Thorburn gives a very fine picture in his first plate, for it is a far cry to the Highlands where this royal grouse roams. Black game we know better, but even these fine birds are no longer, as in Dandie Dinmont's days, 'as thick as doos in a dooket.' Speaking for England, their range is confined to a few circumscribed areas; but Mr Thorburn, I think, takes too pessimistic a view of their status in the western counties. It is too true that they are disappearing by slow degrees. It is also true that reintroduction has failed to restore them. They are by no means extinct as yet, however, and in certain favoured localities, they even hold their own. Among the Dartmoor birds, I regret to say, there has been a marked decrease within the last two years. Many there can remember the time when black game were so numerous on the great bogs north of Teignhead that every coombe and heathercrowned hollow resounded with their call-notes. Now one might hunt far for a single specimen.

Surprisingly little has been written about the blackcock, for he is an interesting bird. There is, moreover, an old-world air about him, as of one who has outlived his generation. One feels that he should have passed with the bittern and the bustard, and such doubtless would have been his fate but for the measure of protection and assistance he has received. But beautiful bird as he is, wild and romantic as his personality may be, for the actual sport he gives the blackcock in my opinion is a little overrated. He lacks both the activity and the finesse of the partridge, for example, and though hard to flush, when once in air affords an easy shot. His flight,

moreover, is slower than that of his red relative, and while a partridge or a red grouse skims low over the heath a blackcock mounts steadily, and so presents a far simpler mark. His flights too are short, and if flushed repeatedly he soon refuses to rise at all, and resorts to pedestrianism pure and simple. Indeed at one time Dartmoor herdsmen were actually in the habit of running black game down with cattle-dogs-a trick only too easily practised, careful marking being all that is required. The mountain fox catches them in much the same way, and the birds have another curious weakness by means of which whole packs are destroyed by poachers human and furred.

It was told to me by an old moor guide of unimpeachable veracity, from whom I have heard many strange tales of the woodcraft practised long ago when game abounded on the ranges and he, like many others, lived entirely by his gun. There was little 'swaling' in those days. Over many thousand-acre sweeps luxuriant heather stretched unbroken, cropping up here and there in tall dense brakes through which no pointer could work. These were the great strongholds of the black game, and the young birds who took refuge in such cover were seldom flushed again.

There one would suppose the matter ended. But not so where 'professional sportsmen' of my informant's type were concerned. His business was to get game for market by fair means or foul, and failing the gun, there were other ways. According to this man, when a young grouse gains thick cover it does not run, but squats close upon the ground, trusting to absolute stillness for self-preservation. It will not stir a feather no matter how near an enemy may come, and may be caught without difficulty if one has any idea of its whereabouts. Upon one occasion my friend marked a pack into a brake covering about a quarter of an acre, and while an accomplice waited outside for possible fliers he hunted about, and picked up no less than seven well-grown birds. He told me the story without shame or reserve, thinking nothing of it, and I have no reason to doubt its truth.

The explanation, of course, is simple. The habit of hiding becomes so fixed in the young birds that they

adhere to it long after their wings have grown. Doubtless it stands them in good stead at times, but like many wiser creatures, they are not always content to leave well alone. When a young grouse sees danger afar as often as not he crows a challenge. Then should the intruder approach, he sits tight until almost stepped upon. It is possible to walk into the very midst of a pack, and shoot one bird after another as they take unwilling wing. In these matters their habits vary according to the nature of the country. Where there is less cover they fly far more readily, and no game bird is capable of longer flight than the blackcock when he chooses to use his wings. Years ago, when black game were more numerous both here and on Exmoor, they crossed freely from one forest to another, and during favourable weather were often seen flying over, high in the gale.

Many other wild birds besides black game are difficult to flush from really heavy cover. Young mallards who have never been shot at or had much occasion to fly display an aptitude at dodging and hiding which puts the wiles of any game bird to shame. The mallard, who figures as the frontispiece of Mr Thorburn's book, is a remarkable bird, easily fooled in some ways, in others as crafty and resourceful as a fox. Quite recently I saw a proof of his elusiveness on a little northern mere, where wild fowl abound though the place is practically unknown. It is a quiet piece of water, formerly used as a decoy of which few traces remain to-day; but even now the wild birds come still from force of long custom, though neither protected nor encouraged.

It was my first visit, and with the stranger's usual luck I walked right into the ducks, whereas upon ordinary occasions the most careful stalking might have yielded nothing but disappointment. Tall woods, grown old since the days when they served to screen the fowler's device, encircle the little lake, and through these I approached cautiously and looked out over the water. At one end where the reed growth was thick some coots were preening themselves, but apart from them there was nothing to be seen. The pool upon whose surface the surrounding trees were mirrored with startling vividness lay undisturbed in the early-October sunshine, and

I was strolling carelessly towards the coots, when from a little reedy bay, hitherto concealed by intervening willows, a wild drake rose with a harrk-harrk which startled up as fine a flock of home-reared mallards as one ever sees nowadays in this country. Having seen nobody they were not really alarmed, but rose in a leisurely manner, as if told to move on. Even so, by accident or design, they flew in such a manner from where I stood that some high trees intersected their line of flight, and though they swept full across my front there was no chance to shoot.

After flying the length of the pool—a matter of some seven hundred yards-they circled high over a wood beyond, then, seeing no better resting-place, swung in again, and winding down 'the spiral staircase of the winds,' re-alighted on the water at the farther end. They settled down and for a while I watched them there. They were indeed a tempting sight-sixty or seventy splendid birds, resting calmly within easy shot of the bank—and nothing seemed simpler than to stalk round under cover of the trees and surprise them again, perhaps with better success. The circuit was accomplished after some trouble, but all the time I had an uneasy conviction that I was not getting much nearer the game. Now and again a low quack from somewhere on the water suggested that they too were moving round at a pace commensurate with my advance, so it was no surprise when, gaining a point near their original position, I looked in vain for any sign of them.

That they had not taken flight was certain, and thinking they must still be skulking somewhere in the sedges, I commenced an exhaustive search. I had no dog, but the reed growth was nowhere so extensive that one could not reach any part with sticks or stones, to which at last I had recourse. Nothing availed, however; startled coots and moorhens splashed about, or went spattering over the water, but the ducks had disappeared, and in the end, completely mystified, I was obliged to admit defeat. And mystified I should have remained until this day, had not accident solved the riddle.

From the most open point on all the shore-the one outlet which owing to its very openness I had not made good-a little ditch a foot or two wide ran from the