Mr. Punch with Rod and Gun: The Humours of Fishing and Shooting

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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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.

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.

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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.

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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?

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HAGIOLOGY.--Patron of a Fishmarket.--St. Polycarp.

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

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NET PROFIT.--A fisherman's.

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

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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.

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AN ACUTE ANGLER.--The judicious Hooker.

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ANGLER'S MOTTO.--Carpe diem. A carp a day.

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

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

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THE COMPLEAT DUFFER

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.

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[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!

]

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

A. One hates his books and the other baits his hooks.

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

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AN ORIGINAL CORNER MAN.--The Complete Angler.

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

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

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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?

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

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BAIT AND WHITEBAIT

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

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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]

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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."

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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!

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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!"

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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!"

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Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Act II

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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.

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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!

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THE FOOL WITH A GUN

(To the Tune of the "Temptation of St. Anthony")

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!

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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.

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[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.

]

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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!"

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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!"

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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.

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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.

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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!

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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."

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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!

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"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!"

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[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

]

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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!"

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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!

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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!

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"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!"

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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."

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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.

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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!

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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!"

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[Illustration: RATHER STARTLING

"Well, Count! Any sport this morning?"

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

[He means he has missed three beautiful shots.

]

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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.

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[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!

]

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[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.

]

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[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!

]

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SPORT IN SPORT

(Game played by Dumb-Crambo, Junior)

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* * * [Illustration: Full cock]

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HOW MOSSOO SHOT THE COCK-PHEASANT

(The Gamekeeper's Story)

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!

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!

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

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