University of Virginia Library

3. TOM DRAW'S VISIT TO PINE BROOK.

1. THE SPORTSMAN'S SPREAD.

The long cold winter had passed away and been succeeded by
the usual alternations of damp sloppy thaws, and piercing eastern
gales, which constitute a North American Spring; and now the
croaking of the bull-frogs, heard from every pool and puddle, the
bursting buds of the young willows, and, above all, the appearance
of the Shad in market, announced to the experienced sportsman,
the arrival of the English Snipe upon the marshes. For some
days Harry Archer had been busily employed in overhauling his
shooting apparatus, exercising his setters, watching every change
of wind, and threatening a speedy expedition into the meadows of
New Jersey, so soon as three days of easterly rain should be followed
by mild weather from the southward. Anxiously looked
for, and long desired, at last the eastern storm set in, cold, chilling,
misty, with showers of smoky driving rain, and Harry for two entire
days had rubbed his hands in ecstasy; while Timothy stood
ever in the stable door—his fists plunged deep in the recesses of
his breeches' pockets, and a queer smile illuminating the honest
ugliness of his bluff visage—patiently watching for a break in the
dull clouds—his harness hanging the while in readiness for instant
use, with every crest and turret as bright as burnished gold; his
wagon all prepared, with bear-skins and top-coats displayed; and
his own kit packed up in prompt anticipation of the first auspicious
moment. The third dark morning had dawned dingily; the rain
still drifted noiselessly against the windows, while gutters over-flowed,
and kennels swollen into torrents announced its volume and
duration. There was not then the least temptation to stir out of
doors, and, sulky myself, I was employed in coaxing a sulky cigar
beside a yet more sulky fire, with an empty coffee cup and a large
quarto volume of Froissart upon the table at my elbow, when a
quick cheery triple rap at the street door announced a visitor, and
was succeeded instantly by a firm rapid footstep on the stairs, accompanied
by the multitudinous pattering and whimpering of spaniels.
Without the ceremony of a knock the door flew open; and
in marched, with his hat on one side, a dirty looking letter in his
hand, and Messrs. Dan and Flash at his heel, the renowned Harry
Archer.

“Here's a lark, Frank,” exclaimed that worthy, pitching the

billet down upon the table, and casting himself into an arm-chair;
“Old Tom is to be here to-day to dinner, and wants to go with us
to the Snipe Meadow. So we will dine, if it so please you, at my
hose at three—I have invited Mac to join us—and start directly
after for Pine Brook.”

“The devil!” I responded, somewhat energetically; “what, in
this rain?”

“Rain—yes, indeed. The wind has hauled already to the westward
of the south, and we shall have a starlight night, and a clear
day to-morrow, and grand sport I'll warrant you! Rain—yes!
I'm glad it does rain; it will keep cockney gunners off the meadows.”

“But will Tom really be here? How do you know it? Have
you seen him?”

“Read—read, man!” he responded, lighting the while a dark
cheroot, and lugging out my gun-case to inspect its traps. And I
in due obedience took up the billet-doux, which had produced this
notable combustion. It was a thin, dirty, oblong letter, written
across the lines upon ruled paper, with a pencil, wafered, and
stamped with a key, and bearing in round school-boy characters the
following direction:—

Internally it ran—

“Well! that matter seems to be settled,” answered I, when I
had finished the perusal of this most notable epistle. “I suppose
he will be here to the fore!”

“Sartain!” responded Archer, grinning; “and do you for once,
if possible—which I suppose it is not—be in time for dinner; I
will not wait five minutes, and I shall give you a good feed; pack
up your traps, and Tim shall call for them at two. We dine at
three, mind! Start from my door at half-past five, so as to get
across in the six o'clock boat. Hard will be looking out for us,
I know, about this time, at Pine Brook; and we shall do it easy in
three hours, for the roads will be heavy. Come along, dogs. Good
bye, Frank. Three o'clock! now don't be late, there's a good lad.
Here Flash! here Dan!” and gathering his Macintosh about him,
exit Harry.

Thereupon to work I went with a will; rummaged up gun,
cleaning-rod, copper caps, powder horns, shot-pouch, and all the

et ceteras of shooting, which—being always stowed away with so
much care at the end of one season, that they are undiscoverable
at the beginning of the next—are sources of eternal discomfiture to
those most all-accomplished geniuses, hight sportsmen's servants:
got out and greased my fen boots with the fit admixture of tallow,
tar, beeswax, and Venice turpentine; hunted up shooting jacket,
corduroys, plaid waistcoat, and check shirts; and, in fact, perpetrated
the detested task of packing, barely in time for Timothy,
who, as he shouldered my portmantean, and hitched up the waisthand
of his own most voluminous unmentionables, made out in the
midst of grins and nods, and winks, to deliver himself to the following
effect—

“Please sur, measter says, if you ple-ase to moind three o't
clock—for he'll be dommed, he said, please Measter Forester, av
he waits haaf a minit—”

“Very well, Tim, very well—that'll do—I'll be ready.”

“And Measter Draw be coom'd tew—nay but Ay do think 'at
he's fatter noo than iver—ecod Ayse laff to see him doon i' t' mossy
meadows laike—he'll swear, Ayse warrant him.”

And with a burst of merriment, that no one pair of mortal lips
save Timothy's alone could ever have accomplished, he withdrew,
leaving me to complete my toilet; in which, believe me, gentle
reader, mindful of a good feed and of short law, I made no needless
tarrying.

The last stroke of the hour appointed had not yet stricken when
I was on the steps of Harry's well-known snug two-storied domicile;
in half a minute more I was at my ease in his study, where,
to my no small wonder, I found myself alone, with no other employment
than to survey, for the nine hundredth time, the adornments
of that exquisite model for that most snug of all things, a
cozy bachelor's peculiar snuggery. It was a small back room,
with two large windows looking out upon a neatly trimmed grassplat
bordered with lilacs and laburnums; its area, of sixteen feet
by fourteen, was strewn with a rick Turkey carpet, and covered
with every appurtenance for luxury and comfort that could be
brought into its limits without encumbering its brief dimensions.
A bright steel grate, with a brilliant fire of Cannel coal, occupied
the centre of the south side, facing the entrance, while a superb
book-case and secretaire of exquisite mahogany filled the recess
on either hand of it, their glass doors showing an assortment, handsomely
bound, of some eight hundred volumes, classics, and history,
and the gems of modern poesie and old romance. Above
the mantel-piece, where should have hung the mirror, was a wide
case, covering the whole front of the pier, with doors of plate glass,
through which might be discovered, supported on a rack of ebony,
and set off by a back-ground of rich crimson velvet, the select
armory, prized above all his earthly goods by their enthusiastic
owner—consisting of a choice pair of twin London-made double-barrels,
a short splendidly finished ounce-ball rifle, a heavy single
pigeon gun, a pair of genuine Kuchenreuter's nine-inch duelling

pistols, and a smaller pair by Joe Manton for the belt or pocket—
all in the most perfect order, and ready for immediate use. Facing
this case upon the opposite wall, along the whole length of which
ran a divan, or wide low sofa, of crimson damask, hung two oil
paintings, originals by Edward Landseer, of dogs—hounds, terriers,
and all, in fact, of canine race, mongrels of low degree alone excepted—under
these were suspended, upon brackets, two long duck
guns, and an array of tandem and four-house whips, besides two
fly-rods, and a cherry-stick Persian pipe, ten feet at least in length.
The space between the windows was occupiedby two fine engravings,
one of the Duke of Wellington, the other of Sir Walter in
his study—Harry's political and literary idols; a library centre
table, with an inkstand of costly buhl, covered with periodicals and
papers, and no less than four sumptuous arm-chairs of divers forms
and patterns, completed the appointments of the room; but the
picture still would be incomplete, were I to pass over a huge tortoise-shell
Tom Cat, which dozed upon the rug in amicable vicinity
to our old friends the spaniels Dan and Flash. It did not occupy
me quite so long to take a survey of these well-remembered articles,
as it has done to describe them; nor, in fact, had that been
the case, should I have found the time to reconnoitre them; for
scarcely was I seated by the fire, before the ponderous trampling of
Old Tom might be heard on the stair-case, as in vociferous converse
with our host he came down from the chamber, wherein, by
some strange process of persuasion assuredly peculiar to himself,
Harry had forced him to go through the ceremony of ablution, previous
to his attack upon the viands, which were in truth not likely
to be dealt with more mercifully in consequence of this delay. Another
moment, and they entered—“Arcades ambo” duly rigged for
the occasion—Harry in his neat claret-colored jocky-coat, white
waiscoat, corduroys and gaiters—Tom in Canary-colored vest, sky-blue
dress coat with huge brass buttons, gray kerseymere unmentionables,
with his hair positively brushed, and his broad jolly face
clean shaved, and wonderfully redolent of soap and water. The
good old soul's face beamed with unfeigned delight, and grasping
me affectionately by the hand—

“How be you?” he exclaimed—“How be you, Forester—you
looks well, anyways.”

“Why, I am well, Tom,” responded I, “but I shall be better
after I've had that drink that Archer's getting ready—you're dry,
I fancy—”

“Sartain!” was the expected answer; and in a moment the pale
Amontillado sherry and the bitters were paraded—but no such d—d
washy stuff, as he termed it, would the old Trojan look at, much
less taste; and Harry was compelled to produce the liquor stand,
well stored with potent waters, when at the nick of time McTavish
entered in full fig for a regular slap-up party, not knowing at all
whom he had been asked to meet. Not the least discomposed,
however, that capital fellow was instantly at home, and as usual
up to every sort of fun.

“What, Draw,” said he, “who the devil thought of seeing you
here—when did you come down? Oh! the dew, certainly,” he
continued, in reply to Archer, who was pressing a drink on him—
“the mountain dew for me—catch a Highlander at any other dram,
when Whasky's to the fore—aye, Tom?”

“Catch you at any dram, exceptin' that what's strongest. See
to him now!” as Mac tossed off his modicum, and smacked his
lips approvingly; “see to him now! I'd jist as lief drink down so
much fire, and he pours it in—pours it in, jist like as one it was
mother's milk to the d—d critter.”

“Ple-ase Sur, t' dinner's re-ady”—announced Timothy, throwing
open the folding doors, and displaying the front room, with a beautiful
fire blazing, and a good old fashioned round table covered with
exquisite white damask-linen, and laid with four covers, each
flanked by a most unusual display of glasses—a mighty bell-mouthed
rummer, namely, on a tall slender stock with a white spiral line
running up through the centre, an apt substitute for that most
awkward of all contrivances, the ordinary champagne glass—a
beautiful green hock goblet, with a wreath of grapes and vine
leaves wrought in relief about the rim—a massy water tumber
elaborately diamond-cut—and a capacious sherry-glass so delicate
and thin that the slender crystal actually seemed to bend under
the pressure of your lip; nor were the liquors wanting in proportion—two
silver wine-coolers, all frosted over with the exudations
from the ice within, displayed the long necks of a champagne flask
and a bottle of Johannisbergher, and four decanters hung out their
labels of Port, Madeira, brown Sherry, and Amontillado—while
two or three black, copper-wired bottles, in the chimney-corner, announced
a stock of heavy-wet, for such as should incline to malt.
I had expected from Tom's lips some preternatural burst of wonder,
at this display of preparation, the like of which, as I conceived, had
never met his eyes before—but, whether he had been indoctrinated
by previous feeds at Harry's hospitable board, or had learned by his
own native wit the difficult lesson of nil admirari, he sat down
without any comment, though he stared a little wildly, when he
saw nothing eatable upon the table, except a large dish of raw oysters,
flanked by a lemon and a cruet of cayenne. With most ineffable
disdain he waved off the plate which Tim presented to him,
with a G—d d—n you, I arnt a goin to give my belly cold with no
such chillin' stuff as that. I'd like to know now, Archer, if this
bees all that you're a goin to give us—for if so be it is, I'll go
stret down to the nigger's yonder, and git me a beef steak and
onions?”

“Why not exactly, Tom,” responded Archer, when he could
speak for laughing—“these are merely for a whet to give us an
appetite.”

“A d—d queer sort of wet, I think—why I'd have thought that
ere rum, what McTavish took, would have been wet enough, till
what time as you got at the champagne—and, as for appetite, I
reckon now a man whose guts is always cravin—cravin—like yours

be, had better a taken somethin dry to keep it down like, than a
wet to moisten it up more.”

By this time the natives, which had so moved Tom's indignation,
were succeeded by a tureen of superb mutton broth, to which
the old man did devote himself most assiduously, while Mac was
loud in approbation of the brouse, saying it only wanted bannocks
to be perfection.

“D—n you, you're niver satisfied—you aint”—Tom had commenced,
when he was cut short by “The Sherry round—Tim”—
from our host—“you 'd better take the brown, Tom, it's the strongest!”
The old man thrust his rummer forth, as being infinitely the
biggest, and—Timothy persisting in pouring out the strong and
fruity sherry into the proper glass—burst out again indignantly—

“I 'd be pleased to know, Archer, now, why you puts big glasses
on the table' if you don't mean they should be drinked out of—to
tantalize a chap, I reckon”—down went the wine at one gulp, and
the exquisite aroma conquered—he licked his lips, sighed audibly,
smiled, grinned, then laughed aloud. “I see—I see”—he said at
last—“you reckon it's too prime to be drinked out of big ones—and
I dunknow but what you're right too—but what on airthe is we to
drink out of these—not water, that I know! leastways, I niver see
none in this house, no how.”

“The green one is for brandy—Tom!” McTavish answered.

“Ey, ey!”—Tom interrupted him—“and they makes them green
I guess, so as no one shall see how much a body takes—now that's
what I does call genteel!”

“And this large plain one”—added Mac, looking as grave as a
judge, and lifting one of the huge champagne glasses—“is a dram
glass for drinking Scotch whiskey—what they call in the Highlands
a thimblefull—”

“They take it as a medicine there, you see, Tom”—continued
Archer—a preventive to a disease well known in those parts, called
the Scotch fiddle—did you ever hear of it?”

“Carnt say”—responded Tom “what like is 't?”

“Oh, Mac will tell you, he suffers from it sadly—didn't you see
him tuck in the specific—it was in compliment to him I had the
thimbles set out to-day.”

“Oh! that's it, aye?—the fat man answered—“well I don't care
if I do”—in answer to Harry's inquiry whether he would take some
boiled shad, which, with caper sauce, had replaced the soup—“I
don't care if I do—Shads isn't got to Newburgh yet, leastways I
harnt seen none—”

Well might he say that, by the way, for they had scarce appeared
in New York, and were attainable now only at the moderate rate
of something near their weight in silver. After the fish, a dram of
Ferintosh was circulated in one small glass, exquisitely carved into
the semblance of a thistle, which Draw disposed of with no comment
save a passing wonder that when men could get apple-jack,
they should be willing to take up with such smoky trash as
that.

A saddle of roast mutton, which had been hanging, Harry said,
six weeks, a present from that excellent good fellow, the Captain
of the Swallow, followed, and with it came the split-corks—“By
heavens,” I cried, almost involuntarily—“what a superb champagne”—suffering,
after the interjection, something exceeding half
a pint of that delicious, dry, high-flavored, and rich-bodied nectar,
to glide down my gullet.

“Yes”—answered Harry—“yes—alack! that it should be the
last! This is the last but one of the first importation of the Crown
—no such wine ever came before into this country, no such has followed
it. We shall discuss the brace to-day—what better opportudity?
Here is McTavish, its originator, the best judge in the land!
Frank Forester, who has sipped of the like at Crockie's, and a place
or two beside, which we could mention—myself, who am not slow
at any decent tipple, and Thomas Draw, who knows it, I suppose,
from Jarsey Cider!”

“Yes, and I knows it from the Jarsey champagne tew—which
you stick into poor chaps, what you fancies doosn't know no better—give
me some more of that ere mutton and some jelly—you
are most d—d sparin of your jelly now—and Timothy, you snoopin
rascal, fill this ere thimblefull agin with that Creawn wine!”

Wild fowl succeeded, cooked to a turn, hot claret duly qualified
with cayenne in a sauce-boat by their side—washed down by the
last flask of Mac's champagne, of which the last round we quaffed
sorrowfully, as in duty bound, to the importer's health, and to the
memory of the crowned head departed—the only crown, as Harry
in his funeral oration, truly and pithily observed, which gives the
lie to the assertion that “uneasy lies the head that wears a
crown.”

No womanish display of pastry marred the unity of this most
solemn masculine repast, a Stilton cheese, a red herring, with Goshen
butter, pilot bread, and porter, concluded the rare banquet. A
plate of devilled biscuit, and a magnum of Latour, furnished forth
the dessert, which we discussed right jovially; while Timothy,
after removing Harry's guns from their post of honor above the
mantel-piece to their appropriate cases, stole away to the stable to
prepare his cattle.

“Now, boys,” said Harry, “make the most of your time. There
is the claret, the best in my opinion going—for I have always prized
Mac's black-sealed Latour far above Lynch's Margaux—yes even
above that of '25. For Lynch's wine, though exquisitely delicate,
was perilous thin; I never tasted it without assenting to Serjeant
Bothwell's objection, `Claret's ower cauld for my stamach,' and
desiring like him to qualify it `wi a tass of eau di vie.' Now this
wine has no such fault, it has a body—”

“I don't know, Archer,” interrupted Tom, “what that ere
sarjeant meant with his d—d o di vee, but I know now that I'd a
d—d sight rayther have a drink o' brandy, or the least mite of apple-jack,
than a whole keg of this red rot-gut!”

“You've hit the nail on the head, Tom,” answered I, while Harry,

knowing the old man's propensities, marched off in search of the
liquor stand—“It was brandy that the serjeant meant!”

“Then why in h—l did d't he say brandy, like a man—instead of
coming out with his d—d snivelling o di vee?”

“Why, Tom,” said I, in explanation, “he admired your favorite
drink so much, that he used the Frendh name as most complimentary;
it means water of life!”

“What, he watered it too, did he? I thought he must be a d—d
poor drinkin' man, to call things out of their right names—precious
little of the raal stuff had he ever drinked, I reckon, watered or
not—o di vee! D—n all such Latin trash, says I. But here 't
comes. Take a drop, doo, McTavish, it's better fifty times, and
healthier tew, than that eternal d—d sour old vinegar, take a drop,
doo!”

“Thank you, no” answered McTavish, well contented with his
present beverage, and after a pause went on addressing Archer—
“I wish to heaven you 'd let me know what you were up to—I'd
have gone along.”

“What hinders you from going now?” said Harry. “I can rig
you out for the drive, and we can stop at the Carlton, and get
your gun, and the rest of your traps. I wish to the Lord you
would!”

“Oh! oh!” Tom burst out, on the instant, “oh, oh! I wont go,
sartain, less so be McTavish concludes on going tew—we carnt do
nothing without him.”

It was in vain, however, that we all united in entreating him to
go along—he had business to do to-morrow—he was afraid of getting
his feet wet, and fifty other equally valid excuses, till Harry exclaimed—“It's
no use, I can tell you Donald's bluid's up, and
there's an end of it—”

Whereat McTavish laughed, and saying that he did not think,
for a very short-sighted man, snipe-shooting up to his waist in water,
and up to his knees in mud, was the great thing it is cracked up
to be, filled himself a pretty sufficient dose of hot toddy, and drank
to our good luck. Just at this moment, up rattled, ready packed,
with the dogs in, the gun-cases stowed, and store of topcoats, capes,
and bear-skins, all displayed, the wagon to the door.

“I need not tell you, Mac,” cried Archer, as he wrung the gallant
Celt by the hand, to make yourself at home—we must be
off, you know;”—then opening the window, “hand in those coats,
Timothy, out of that drizzling rain—I thought you had more
sense.”

“Nay then, they're no but just coom fra under t' approns,” responded
Tim, not over and above delighted at the reflection on his
genius—“they're droy as booans, Ayse warrant um.”

“Well! hand them in then—hand them in—where's your coat,
Tom?—that's it; now look here, buckle on this crape of mine over
your shoulders, and take this India rubber hood, and tie it over
your hat, and you may laugh at four-and-twenty-hours' rain, let
alone two. You have got toggery enough, Frank, I conclude—so

here goes for myself.” Whereupon he indued, first a pea-jacket of
extra pilot-cloth, and a pair of English mud-boots, buttoning to the
mid thigh; and, above these, a regular box coat of stout blue
dreadnought, with half a dozen capes; an oil-skin covered hat,
with a curtain to protect his neck and ears, fastening with a hook
and eye under the chin, completing his attire. In we got, thereupon,
without more ado. Myself and Timothy, with the two setters,
in the box-seat behind, the leathern apron unrolled and buttoned
up, over a brace of buffalo robes, hairy side inward, to our middles
—Harry and Tom in front, with one superb black bearskin drawn
up by a ring and strap to the centre of the back rail between them,
and the patent water-proof apron hooked up to either end of the seat
—the effeminacy of umbrellas we despised—our cigars lighted, and
our bodies duly muffled up, off we went, at a single chirrup of our
driver, whose holly four-horse whip stood in the socket by his side
unheeded, as with his hands ungloved, and his beautiful, firm, upright
seat upon the box, he wheeled off at a gentle trot, the good
nags knowing their master's hand and voice, as well as if they had
been his children, and obeying them far better.

Our drive, it must be admitted, through the heavy rain was nothing
to brag of. Luckily, however, before we had got over much
more than half our journey, the storm gradually ceased, as the night
fell; and, by the time we reached the big swamp, it was clear all
over the firmament; with a dark, dark blue sky, and millions of
stars twinkling gayly—and the wind blowing freshly but pleasantly
out of the nor-norwest!

“Did I not tell you so, boys?” exclaimed Archer, joyously pointing
with his whip to the bright skies—“we'll have a glorious day
to-morrow.” Just as he spoke, we reached the little toll-gate by
the Morris Canal; and, as we paused to change a fifty cent piece,
what should we hear, high in air, rapidly passing over our heads,
but the well known “skeap! skeap?” the thin shrill squeak of
unnumbered snipe, busy in their nocturnal voyage; and within an
hour thereafter we arrived at our journey's end, where a glass all
round of tip-top champagne brandy—a neat snug supper of capital
veal cutlets, ham and eggs, and pork steaks and sausages, finished
the day, and tired enough we went to bed early and dreamed.

2. THE SNIPE.

“What sort of a morning is it, Timothy?” asked I, rubbing my
eyes, as I sat bolt upright in bed on the irruption of that fidus
Achates, some half hour before sunrise, into my little dormitory;
“What sort of a morning is it?”

“A varry bonny mornin, Measter Frank,” responded he; “there
was a leetle tooch o' whaite frost aboot midnaight, but sin' t' moon
set, there 's been a soop o' warm ra-ain, and it's dooll noo, and saft
loike, wi' t' wind sootherly—but it's boon to be nooght at all, Ayse
warrant it. T' Soon 'll be oot enoo—see if he beant—and t' snaipe
'll laie laike steans. Ayse a wa noo, and fetch t' het watter—t' ve-al
cootlets is i' t' pann, and John Van Dyne he's been a wa-aiting iver
sin 't got laight.”

“That's not very long, then,” answered I, springing out of bed,
“at all events; for it's as dark as pitch now; bring me a candle, I
can't shave by this light; there! leave the door into the parlor
open, and tell John to come in and amuse me while I'm shaving.
Is Mr. Archer up?”

“Oop? Weel Ay wot he is oop; and awa wi' Measter Draa, and
t' lang goons, doon to t' brigg; to watch t' doocks flay, but Van
Dyne says t' doocks has dean flaying.”

“Yes, yes—they 'se quit sartin,” answered a merry voice without,
and in stalked John, the best fowl-shot, the best snipe-marker, the
best canoe-paddler, and the best fellow every way, in New Jersey.

“How are you, John?—any birds on the Piece?”

“Nicely!” he answered, to my first query—“nicely,”—shaking
me warmly by the hand, and, after a pause, added, “I can't say as
there be; the Piece is too wet altogether!”

“Too wet—aye? that's bad, John!”

“Lord, yes—too wet entirely; I was half over it with the canoe
last week, and didn't see—no not half a dozen, and they was
round the edges like, where there wasn't no good lying? there
was a heap o' yellow legs, though, and a smart chance o' plover.”

“Oh, d—n the plover, John; but shall we find no snipe?”

“Not upon neither of the Pieces, no how—but there was heaps
of them a flyin' over all last night; yes! yes! I guess Archer and
I can fix it so as we'll git a few—but, do tell, who's that darned
fat chap as I see goin' down”—

Here he was interrupted by the distant report of a heavy gun,
followed almost upon the instant by a second.

“Ding!” he exclaimed, “but there's a flight now! arn't there?
I guess now, Mr. Forester, I'd as well jist run down with old Shot,
leastwise he'll fetch um, if so be they've fallen in the water.”

“Do! do!” cried I, “by all means, John; and tell them to come
back directly; for half the breakfast's on the table, and I'll be
ready by the time they're here.”

By the time I had got my jacket on, and while I was in the act

of pulling up my long fen boots before the cheerful fire, I perceived
by the clack of tongues without, that the sportsmen had returned;
and the next moment Harry entered, accompanied by Fat Tom in
his glory, with no less than two couple and a half of that most beautiful
and delicate of wild-fowl, the green-winged teal.

“That's not so bad, Frank,” exclaimed Harry, depositing, as he
spoke, his heavy single-barrel in the chimney-corner, and throwing
himself into an arm-chair; “that's not so bad for ten minutes'
work, is it?”

“Better a d—d sight,” Tom chimed in, “than layin snoozin till
the sun is high; but that's the way with these etarnal drinkin men,
they does keep bright just so long as they keeps a liquorin; but
when that's done with, you don't hear nothin more of them till noon,
or arter. D—n all sich drunken critters.”

“That's a devilish good one,” answered I; “the deuce a one of
you has shaved, or for that matter, washed his face, to the best of
my belief; and then, because you tumble out of bed like Hottentots,
and rush out, gun in hand, with all the accumulated filth of a
hard day's drive, and a long night's sweat, reeking upon you, you
abuse a Christian gentleman, who gets up soberly, and dresses himself
decently—for idleness and what not!”

“Soberly!” answered Tom; “Soberly! Jest hear, now, Harry,
—Soberly!—jest like as though he hadn't a had his bitters, and
d—d bitter bitters, too!”

“Not a drop, upon honor,” I replied; “not a drop this morning?”

“What?—oh! oh! that's the reason, then, why you're so 'tarnal
cross. Here, landlord, bring us in them cider sperrits—I harnt had
only a small taste myself—take a drink, Frank, and you'll feel slick
as silk torights, I tell you.”

“Thank you, no!” said I, falling foul of the veal cutlets delicately
fried in batter, with collops of ham interspersed, for which
my worthy host is justly celebrated—“thank you, no! bitters are
good things in their way, but not when breakfast treads so close
upon the heels of them!”

“Tak a soop, Measter Frank—tak a soop, sur!” exhorted Timothy,
who was bearing around a salver laden with tumblers, the decanter
gracing his better hand. “Tak a soop, thou'lt be all t'
betther for 't enoo. Measter Draa 's i' t' roight o' 't. It's varry
good stooff Ay'se oophaud it.”

“I dont doubt that at all, Tim; natheless I'll be excused just
now.”

I was soon joined at the table by the fat man and Archer, who
were so busily employed in stowing away what Sir Dugald Dalgetty
terms provant, that few words passed between us. At length
when the furor edendi was partially suppressed: “Now then,
John,” said Harry, “we are going to be here two days—to-morrow,
that is, and to-day—what are we to beat, so as to get ground for
both days? Begin with the long meadow, I suppose, and beat the
vlies toward the small piece home, and finish here before the door.”

“That's it, I reckon,” answered the jolly Dutchman, “but you
knows pretty nigh as well as I can tell you.”

“Better, John, better, if I knew exactly how the ground was—
but that will be the driest, won't it?”

“Sartain,” replied the other, “but we'll get work enough without
beating the ground hereaways before the house; we'll keep
that to begin upon to-morrow, and so follow up to the big meadow,
and to Loises, and all along under the widow Mulford's, if it holds
dry to-day; and somehow now I kind o' guess it will. There'll be
a heap o' birds there by to-morrow—they were a-flyin' cur'ous, now,
last night, I tell you.”

“Well, then, let us be moving. Where's the game-bag, Timothy?
give it to John! Is the brandy bottle in it, and the luncheon?
hey?”

“Ay, ay! Sur!” answered Tim; “t' brandy 's t' big wicker
bottle, wi' t' tin cup—and soom cauld pork and crackers 'i 't gam
bag—and a spare horn of powder, wi' a pund in 't. Here, tak it,
John Van Dyne, and mooch good may 't do ye—and—hand a bit,
man! here 's t' dooble shot belt, sling it across your shoulder, and
awa wi' you.”

Every thing being now prepared, and having ordered dinner to be
in readiness at seven, we lighted our cigars and started; Harry,
with the two setters trotting steadily at his heels, and his gun on
his shoulder, leading the way at a step that would have cleared
above five miles an hour, I following at my best pace, Tom Draw
puffing and blowing like a grampus in shoal water, and John Van
Dyne swinging along at a queer loping trot behind me. We crossed
the bridges and the causeway by which we had arrived the previous
night, passed through the toll-gate, and, turning short to the right
hand, followed a narrow sandy lane for some three quarters of a
mile, till it turned off abruptly to the left, crossing a muddy streamlet
by a small wooden bridge. Here Harry paused, flung the stump
of his cheroot into the ditch, and dropping the butt of his gun,
began very quietly to load, I following his example without saying
a word.

“Here we are, Frank,” said he; “this long stripe of rushy fields,
on both sides of the ditch, is what they call the long meadow, and
rare sport have I had on it in my day, but I'm afraid it's too wet
now—we'll soon see, though,” and he strode across the fence, and
waved the dogs off to the right and left. “You take the right hand,
Frank; and, Tom, keep you the ditch bank, all the way; the ground
is firmest there; we've got the wind in our favor; a little farther
off, Frank, they wont lie hard for an hour or two, at all events;
and I don't believe we shall find a bird before we cross the next
fence.”

Heads up and sterns down, off raced the fleet setters, beating the
meadows fairly from the right hand fence to the ditch, crossing each
other in mid course, and quartering the ground superbly—but
nothing rose before them, nor did their motions indicate the slightest
taint of scent upon the dewy herbage. The ground, however, contrary

to Harry's expectations, was in prime order—loose, loamy,
moist, black soil, with the young tender grass of spring shooting up
every where, bright succulent and sweet; tall tufts of rushes here
and there, and patches of brown flags, the reliques of the bye-gone
year, affording a sure shelter for the timid waders. The day was
cool and calm, with a soft mellow light—for the sun was curtained,
though not hidden, by wavy folds of gauze-like mist—and a delicious
softness in the mild western breeze, before which we were
wending our way, as every one who would bag snipe, must do,
down wind. We crossed the second fence—the ground was barer,
wetter, splashy in places, and much poached by the footsteps of the
cattle, which had been pastured there last autumn. See, the red
dog has turned off at a right angle from his course—he lifts his head
high, straitens his neck and snuffs the air, slackening his pace to a
slow, guarded trot, and waving his stern gently—Chase sees him,
pauses, almost backs!

“Look to, Frank—there's a bird before him!”

Skeap! skeap! skeap!—up they jumped eighty yards off at the
least, as wild as hawks; skimming the surface of the meadow, and
still by their shrill squeak calling up other birds to join them, till
seven or eight were on the wing together; then up they rose
clearly defined against the sky, and wheeled in short zigzags above
the plain, as if uncertain whither they should fly, till at length they
launched off straight to the right hand, and after a flight of a full
mile, pitched suddenly and steeply down behind a clump of newly
budding birches.

“I knows where them jokers be, Mr. Archer;” exclaimed Van
Dyne.

“In h—ll, I guess they be,” responded Master Draw; “leastwise
they flew far enough to be there anyhow!”

“No, no! Tom, they've not gone so very far,” said Archer, “and
there's good lying for them there, I shall be satisfied if they all go
that way. To ho! to ho!” he interrupted himself, for the dogs
had both come to a dead point among some tall flags; and Shot's
head cocked on one side, with his nose pointed directly downward,
and his brow furrowed into a knotty frown, showed that the bird
was under his very feet. “Come up, Tom—come up, you old sinner—dont
you see Shot's got a snipe under his very nose?”

“Well! well! I sees,” answered Tom; “I sees it, d—n you!
but give a fellow time, you 'd best, in this etarnal miry mud-hole!”
and, sinking mid leg deep at every step, the fat man floundered on,
keeping, however, his gun ever in position, and his keen quick eye
steadily fixed on the stanch setter.

“Are you ready, now? I'll flush him,” exclaimed Harry, taking
a step in advance; and instantly up sprang the bird, with his
sharp, thrice-repeated cry, and a quick flutter of his wings, almost
straight into the air over the head of Tom, striving to get the
wind.

Bang! Draw's first barrel was discharged, the snipe being at
that moment scarce ten feet from the muzzle, the whole load going

like a bullet, of course harmlessly!—his second followed, but,
like the first, in vain; for the bird, having fairly weathered him,
was flying very fast, and twisting all the time, directly up wind.
Then Harry's gun was pitched up, and the trigger drawn almost
before the butt was at his shoulder. Down went the bird; slanting
away six yards, though killed stone dead, in the direction of
his former flight, so rapidly had he been going, when the shot struck
him.

“Mark! mark!” I shouted, “Harry. Mark! mark! behind
you!” As three more birds took wing, before the red dog, and
were bearing off, too far from me, to the right hand, like those
which had preceded them. I had, when I cried “mark,” not an
idea that he could possibly have killed one; for he had turned
already quite round in his tracks, to shoot the first bird, and the
others had risen wild, in the first place, and were now forty yards
off at the least; but quick as thought he wheeled again, cocking
his second barrel in the very act of turning, and sooner almost than
I could imagine the possibility of his even catching sight of them,
a second snipe was fluttering down wing-tipped.

“Beautiful, beautiful, indeed,” I cried involuntarily; “the
quickest and the cleanest double-shot I have seen in many a
day.”

“It warnt so d—d slow, no how,” replied Tom, somewhat crest-fallen,
as he re-loaded his huge demi-cannon.

“Slow! you old heathen! if you could shoot better than a boy
five years old, we should have had three birds—I could have got
two of those last just as well as not, if you had knocked the first
down like a christian sportsman—but look! look at those devils,”
Harry went on, pointing toward the birds, which had gone off, and
at which he had been gazing all the time; “confound them, they're
going to drum!”

And so indeed they were; and for the first time in my life I beheld
a spectacle, which I had heard of indeed, but never had
believed fully, till my own eyes now witnessed it. The two birds,
which had been flushed, mounted up! up! scaling the sky in short
small circles, till they were quite as far from this dull earth, as the
lark, when “at heaven's gate he sings”—and then dropt plumb
down, as it would seem, fifty feet in an instant, with a strange
drumming sound, which might be heard for a mile or more. Then
up they soared again, and again repeated their manœuvre; while at
each repetition of the sound another and another bird flew up from
every part of the wide meadow, and joined those in mid ether; till
there must have been, at the least reckoning, forty snipe soaring
and drumming within the compass of a mile, rendering the whole
air vocal with that strange quivering hum, which has been stated
by some authors—and among these by the ingenious and observant
Gilbert White—to be ventriloquous; although it is now pretty
generally—and probably with justice—conceded to be the effect of
a vibratory motion of the quill feathers set obliquely, so as to make
the air whistle through them. For above an hour did this wild

work continue; not a bird descending from its “bad eminence,”
but, on the contrary, each one that we flushed out of distance, for
they would not lie to the dogs at all, rising at once to join them.
“We have no chance,” said Harry, “no chance at all of doing
any thing, unless the day changes, and the sun gets out hot, which
I fear it wont. Look out, Tom, watch that beggar to your right
there; he has done drumming, and is going to 'light;” and, with
the word, sheer down he darted some ninety yards from the spot
where we stood, till he was scarce three feet above the marsh;
when he wheeled off, and skimmed the flat, uttering a sharp harsh
clatter, entirely different from any sound I ever heard proceed from
a snipe's bill before, though in wild weather in the early spring
time I have heard it since, full many a day. The cry resembled
more the cackling of a hen, which has just laid an egg, than any
other sound I can compare it to; and consisted of a repetition some
ten times in succession of the syllable kek, so hard and jarring that
it was difficult to believe it the utterance of so small a bird. But
if I was surprised at what I heard, what was I, when I saw the
bird alight on the top rail of a high snake fence, and continue there
five or ten minutes, when it dropped down into the long marsh
grass. Pointing toward the spot where I had marked it, I was
advancing stealthily, when Archer said, “You may try if you like,
but I can tell you that you wont get near him!” I persevered,
however, and fancied I should get within long shot, but Harry was
quite right; for he rose again skeap! skeap! and went off as wild
as ever, towering as before, and drumming; but for a short time
only, when, tired apparently of the long flight he had already taken,
he stooped from his elevation with the same jarring chatter, and
alighted—this time to my unmitigated wonder—upon the topmost
spray of a large willow tree, which grew by the ditch side![1]

“It's not the least use—not the least—pottering after these birds
now,” said Harry. “We'll get on to the farther end of the meadows,
where the grass is long, and where they may lie something
better; and we'll beat back for these birds in the afternoon, if Dan
Phœbus will but deign to shine out.

On we went, therefore, Tom Draw swearing strange oaths at the
birds, that acted so darnation cur'ous, and at myself and Harry for
being such etarnal fools as to have brought him sweatin into them
d—d stinkin mud-holes; and I, to say the truth, almost despairing
of success. In half an hour's walking we did, however, reach
some ground, which—yielding far more shelter to the birds, as
being meadow-land not pastured, but covered with coarse rushy
tussocks—seemed to promise something better in the way of sport;
and before we had gone many yards beyond the first fence, a bird

rose at long distance to Tom's right, and was cut down immediately
by a quick snap shot of that worthy, on whose temper, and ability
to shoot, the firmer ground and easier walking had already begun
to work a miracle.

“Who says I can't shoot now, no more than a five-year old,
d—n you?” he shouted, dropping the butt of his gun deliberately,
when skeap! skeap! startled by the near report, two more snipe
rose within five yards of him!—fluttered he was assuredly, and
fully did I expect to see a clear miss—but he refrained, took time,
cocked his gun coolly, and letting the birds get twenty yards away,
dropped that to his right hand, killed clean with his second barrel,
while Harry doubled up the other in his accustomed style, I not
having as yet got a chance of any bird.

“Down, charge!” said Harry; “down, charge! Shot, you villain!”—for
the last bird had fallen wing-tipped only, and was now
making ineffectual attempts to rise, bouncing three or four feet
from the ground, with his usual cry, and falling back again only to
repeat his effort within five minutes—this proved too much, as it
seemed, for the poor dog's endurance, so that, after rising once or
twice uneasily, and sitting down again at his master's word, he
drew on steadily, and began roading the running bird, regardless
of the score which he might have been well aware he was running
up against himself. During this business Chase had sat pretty
quiet, though I observed a nervous twitching of ears, and a
latent spark of the devil in his keen black eye, which led me to
expect some mischief, so that I kept my gun all ready for immediate
action; and well it was that I did so; for the next moment
he dashed in, passing Shot, who was pointing steadily enough, and
picked up the bird after a trifling scuffle, the result of which was
that a couple more snipe were flushed wild by the noise. Without
a moment's hesitation I let drive at them with both barrels, knocking
the right hand snipe down very neatly; the left hand bird, however,
pitched up a few feet just as I drew the trigger; and the
consequence was that, as I fancied, I missed him clean.

“There! there! you stoopid, blundering, no-sich-thing—there!
now who talks of missing? That was the nicest, prettiest, easiest
shot I ever did see; and you—you shiftless nigger you—you talks
to me of missing!”

“Shut up! shut up! you most incorrigible old brute!” responded
Harry, who had been steadily employed in marking the missed
bird, as I deemed him. “Shut up your stupid jaw! That snipe's
as dead as the old cow you gave us for supper, the last time we
slept at Warwick, though from a different cause; for the cow, Jem
Flyn says, died of the murrain or some other foul rotten disorder;
and that small winged fellow has got a very sufficient dose of blue
pill to account for his decease! So shut up! and keep still while
I take the change out of these confounded dogs; or we shall have
every bird we get near to-day flushed like those two. Ha! Shot!
Ha! Chase! Down cha-a-arge—down cha-a-arge—will you? will
you? Down charge!”

And for about five minutes, nothing was heard upon the meadows
but the resounding clang of the short heavy dog-whip, the
stifled grunts of Shot, and the vociferous yells of Chase, under the
merited and necessary chastisement.

“Down charge, now, will you?” he continued, as, pocketing his
whip, he wiped his heated brow, picked up his gun, and proceeded
to bag the scattered game. “There! that job's done,” he said,
and a job that I hate most confoundedly it is—but it must be done
now and then; and the more severely, when necessary, the more
mercifully!”

“Now that's what I doos call a right down lie,” the fat man
interposed. “You loves it, and you knows you do—you loves to
lick them poor dumb brutes, cause they can't lick back, no how.
You, Chase, d—n you, quit mouthing that there snipe—quit mouthing
it, I say—else I'll cut cut the snoopin soul of you!

“So much for Tom Draw's lecture upon cruelty to animals—
that's what I call rich!” answered Harry. “But come, let us get
on. I marked that bird to a yard, down among those dwarf rosebushes;
and there we shall find, I'll be bound on it, good shooting.
How very stupid of me not to think of that spot! You know,
John, we always find birds there, when they can't be found any
where else.”

On we went, after a re-invigorating cup of mountain dew, with
spirits raised at the prospect of some sport at last, and as we bagged
the snipe which—Harry was right—had fallen killed quite dead,
the sun came out hot, broad, and full. The birds were lying thick
among the stunted bushes and warm bubbling springs which covered,
in this portion of the ground, some twenty acres of marsh
meadow; and as the afternoon waxed warm, they lay right well
before the dogs, which having learned the consequences of misdemeanor,
behaved with all discretion. We shot well! and the sport
waxed so fast and furious, that till the shades of evening fell we
had forgotten—all the three—that our luncheon, saving the article
of drams, was still untasted; and that, when we assembled at seven
of the clock in Hard's cozey parlor, and shook out of bag and pocket
our complement of sixty-three well-grown and well-fed snipe, we
were in reasonable case to do good justice to a right good supper.

3. THE PARTING DRINK.

Breakfast concluded, the next morning we pulled our fen boots
on, and on the instant up rattled Timothy, who had disappeared a
few minutes before, with the well-known drag to the door, guns
stowed away, dogs whimpering, and sticking out their eager noses
between the railings of the box—game bags well packed with lots
of prog and of spare ammunition.

Away we rattled at a brisk pace, swinging round corner after
corner, skillfully shaving the huge blocks of stone, and dexterously
quartering the deep ravine-like ruts which grace the roads of
Jersey—crossing two or three bridges over as many of those tributaries
of the beautiful Passaic, which water this superb snipe-country
—and reaching at least a sweep of smooth level road parallel to a
long tract of meadows under the widow Mulford's. And here,
mort de ma vie! that was a shot from the snipe-ground, and right
on our beat, too—Aye! there are two guns, and two, three, pointers!—liver
and white a brace, and one all liver.

“I know them,” Harry said, “I know them, good shots and
hard walkers both, but a little too much of the old school—a little
too much of the twaddle and potter system. Jem Tickler, there,
used, when I landed here, to kill as many birds as any shot out of
the city—though even then the Jersey boys, poor Ward and Harry
T—gave him no chance; but now heaven help him! Fat Tom
here would get over more ground, and bag more snipe, too, in a day!
The other is a canny Scot,—I have forgot his name, but he shoots
well and walks better. Never mind! we can outshoot them, I believe;
and I am sure we can outmanœuvre them. Get away! get
away, Bob,” as he flanked the near-side horse under the collar on
the inside—“get away you old thief—we must forereach on them.”
Away we went another mile, wheeled short to the left hand through
a small bit of swampy woodland, and over a rough causeway,
crossing a narrow flaggy bog, with three straight ditches, and a
meandering muddy streamlet, traversing its black surface. “Ha!
what's John at there?” exclaimed Harry, pulling short up, and
pointing to that worthy crawling on all fours behind a tuft of high
bullrushes toward the circuitous creek—“There are duck there for
a thousand!”—and as he spoke, up rose with splash and quack and
flutter, four or five long-winged wild-fowl; bang! went John's long
duck-gun, and simultaneously with the report, one of the fowl
keeled over, killed quite dead, two others faltering somewhat in
their flight, and hanging on the air heavily for a little space; when
over went a second into the creek, driving the water six feet into
the air in a bright sparkling shower.

The other three, including the hit bird, which rallied as it flew,
dived forward, flying very fast, obliquely to the road; and to my
great surprise Harry put the whip on his horses with such vigor

that in an instant both were on the gallop, the wagon bouncing and
rattling violently on the rude log-floored causeway. An instant's
thought showed me his object, which was to weather on the fowl
sufficiently to get a shot, ere they should cross the road; although
I marvelled still how he intended to pull up from the furious pace
at which he was going in time to get a chance. Little space, however,
had I for amazement; for the ducks, which had not risen high
into the air, were forced to cross some thirty yards ahead of us, by
a piece of tall woodland, on the verge of which were several woodcutters,
with two or three large fires burning among the brush-wood.
“Now, Tom,” cried Harry, feeling his horses' mouths as
he spoke, but not attempting to pull up; and instantly the old man's
heavy double rose steadily but quickly to his face—bang! neatly
aimed, a yard ahead of the first drake, which fell quite dead into
the ditch on the right hand of the causeway—bang! right across
Harry's face, who leaned back to make room for the fat fellow's
shot, so perfectly did the two rare and crafty sportsmen comprehend
one another—and before I heard the close report, the second
wild-duck slanted down wing-tipped before the wind, into the flags
on the left hand, having already crossed the road when the shot
struck him. The fifth and only now remaining bird, which had
been touched by Van Dyne's first discharge, alighting in the marsh
not far from his crippled comrade.

“Beautiful! beautiful indeed!” cried I; “that was the very
prettiest thing—the quickest, smartest, and best calculated shooting
I ever yet have seen!”

“We have done that same once or twice before though—hey,
Tom?” replied Harry, pulling his horses well together, and gathering
them up by slow degrees—not coming to a dead stop till we had
passed Tom's first bird, some six yards or better. “Now jump out,
all of you; we have no time to lose—no not a minute! for we must
bag these fowl; and those two chaps we saw on Mulford's meadows
are racing now at their top speed behind that hill, to cut in to the
big meadow just ahead of us, you may rely on that. You, Timothy,
drive on under that big pin oak—take off the bridles—halter the
horses to the tree, not to the fence—and put their sheets and hoods
on, for, early as it is, the flies are troublesome already. Then mount
the game-bags and be ready—by the time you're on foot we shall be
with you. Forester, take the red dog to Van Dyne, that second
bird of his will balk him else, and I sha'nt be surprised if he gets
up again! Pick up that mallard out of the ditch as you go by—he
lies quite dead at the foot of those tall reeds. Come, Tom, load up
your old cannon, and we'll take Shot, bag that wing-tipped duck,
and see if we can't nab the crippled bird, too! come along!”

Off we set without further parley; within five minutes I had
bagged Tom's first, a rare green-headed Drake, and joined Van
Dyne, who, with the head and neck of his first bird hanging out of
his breeches pocket, where, in default of game-bag, he had stowed
it, was just in the act of pouring a double handful of BB into his
Queen Ann's musket. Before he had loaded, we heard a shot

across the road, and saw the fifth bird fall to Harry at long distance,
while Shot was gently mouthing Draw's second duck, to his unutterable
contentment. We had some trouble in gathering the
other, for it was merely body-shot, and that not mortally, so that it
dived like a fish, bothering poor Chase beyond expression. This
done, we re-united our forces, and instantly proceeded to the big
meadow, which we found, as Harry had anticipated, in the most
perfect possible condition—the grass was short, and of a delicate
and tender green, not above ancle deep, with a rich close black
mould, moist and soft enough for boring everywhere, under foot—
with, at rare intervals, a slank, as it is termed in Jersey, or hollow
winding course, in which the waters have lain longer than elsewhere,
covered with a deep, rust-colored scum, floating upon the stagnant
pools. We had not walked ten yards before a bird jumped up to
my left hand, which I cut down—and while I was in the act of
loading, another and another rose, but scarcely cleared the grass
ere the unerring shot of my two stanch companions had stopped
their flight forever. Some ten yards from the spot on which my
bird had fallen, lay one of these wet slanks which I have mentioned
—Chase drew on the dead bird and pointed—another fluttered up
under his very nose, dodged three or four yards to and fro, and
before I could draw my trigger, greatly to my surprise, spread out
his wings and settled. Harry and Tom had seen the move, and
walked up to join me; just as they came Chase retrieved the snipe
I had shot, and when I had entombed it in my pocket, we moved on
all abreast. Skeap! skeap! skeap! Up they jumped, not six
yards from our feet, positively in a flock, their bright white bellies
glancing in the sun, twenty at least in number, Six barrels were
discharged, and six birds fell; we loaded and moved on, the dogs
drawing at every step, backing and pointing, so foiled was the ground
with the close scent; again, before we had gathered the fruit of
our first volley, a dozen birds rose altogether; again six barrels bellowed
across the plain, and again Tom and Harry slew their shots
right and left, while I, alas! shooting too quick, missed one! I
know what I aver will hardly be believed, but it is true, notwithstanding;
a third time the same thing happened, except that instead
of twelve, thirty or forty birds, rose at the last, six of which came
again to earth, within, at farthest, thirty paces—making an aggregate
of eighteen shots, fired in less, assuredly, than so many minutes,
and seventeen birds fairly brought to bag. These pocketed,
by twos and threes Van Dyne had marked the others down in every
quarter of the meadow—and, breaking off, singly or in pairs, we
worked our will with them. So hard, however, did they lie, that
many could not be got up again at all. In one instance I had
marked four, as I thought, to a yard, between three little stakes,
placed in the angles of a plat, not above twenty paces in diameter
—taking Van Dyne along with me, who is so capital a marker that
for a dead bird I would back him against any retriever living—I
went without a dog to walk them up. But no! I quartered the
ground, re-quartered it, crossed it a third time, and was just quitting
it despairing, when a loud shout from John a pace or two behind
warned me they were on wing! Two crossed me to the right, one
of which dropped to John's Queen Ann almost as soon as I caught
sight of them, and one to my left. At the latter I shot first, and,
without waiting to note the effect of my discharge, turned quickly
and fired at the other. Him I saw drop, for the smoke drifted, and
as I turned my head, I scarcely can believe it now, I saw my first
bird falling. I concluded he had fluttered on some small space, but
John Van Dyne swears point blank that I shot so quick that the
second bird was on the ground before the first had reached it. In
this—a solitary case, however—I fear John's famed veracity will
scarce obtain for him that credit, or for me that renown, to which
he deemed us both entitled.

Before eleven of the clock we had bagged forty-seven birds;
we sat down in the shade of the big pin oak, and fed deliciously,
and went our way rejoicing, toward the upper meadows, fully expecting
that before returning we should have doubled our bag.

But, alas! the hopes of men!—Troy meadows were too dry—
Persipany too wet—Loise's had been beat already, and not one
snipe did we even see or hear, nor one head of game did we bag;
the morning's sport, however, had put us in such merry mood
that we regarded not the evening's disappointment, and we sat
down in great glee to supper. What we devoured, or what we
drank, it boots not to record; but it was late at night before the
horses were ordered, and we prepared for a start.

After the horses were announced as ready, somewhat to my surprise,
Harry took old Tom aside, and was engaged for some time in
deep conversation; and when they had got through with it, Harry
shook him very warmly by the hand, saying,

“Well, Tom, I am sincerely obliged to you; and it is not the first
time either.”

“Well, well, boy,” responded Tom, “I guess it 'taint the first
time as you've said so, though I don't know right well what for
neither. Any how, I hope't won't be the last time as I'll fix you
as you wants to be. But come, it's gittin' late, and I've got to
drive Hard's horse over to Paterson to-night.”

“Oh, that will not be much,” said Harry. “It is but nine miles,
and we are twenty from New York.”

“Any how, we must take a partin' drink, and I stands treat. I
showed Beers Hard how to make that egg nog. Timothy—Timothy,
you darned critter, bring in that ere egg nog.”

This was soon done, and Tom, replenishing all the glasses to the
brim, said very solemnly, “this is a toast, boys, now a raal bumper.”

Harry grinned conscious. I stood, waiting, wondering.

“Here's luck!” said Tom, “luck to Harry Archer, a land-holder
in our own old Orange!”

The toast was quaffed in an instant; and, as I drew my breath, I
said,

“Well, Harry, I congratulate you, truly. So you have bought
the Jem Burt Place?”

“Thanks to old Tom, dog cheap!” replied Archer; “and I have
only to say, farther, that early in the Autumn, I hope to introduce
you, and all my old friends, to the interior of

MY SHOOTING BOX.