of the tranquil day, the soft bird sounds, so clear and friendly, that
chorus of wild life. The scent of the coverts stole to him, and he
thought:

'What a ripping day for shooting!'

The Squire, wearing a suit carefully coloured so that no bird should
see him, leather leggings, and a cloth helmet of his own devising,
ventilated by many little holes, came up to his son; and the spaniel
John, who had a passion for the collection of birds almost equal to his
master's, came up too.

"You're end gun, George," he said; "you'll get a nice high bird!"

George felt the ground with his feet, and blew a speck of dust off
his barrels, and the smell of the oil sent a delicious tremor darting
through him. Everything, even Helen Bellew, was forgotten. Then in
the silence rose a far-off clamour; a cock pheasant, skimming low, his
plumage silken in the sun, dived out of the green and golden spinney,
curled to the right, and was lost in undergrowth. Some pigeons passed
over at a great height. The tap-tap of sticks beating against trees
began; then with a fitful rushing noise a pheasant came straight out.
George threw up his gun and pulled. The bird stopped in mid-air, jerked
forward, and fell headlong into the grass sods with a thud. In the
sunlight the dead bird lay, and a smirk of triumph played on George's
lips. He was feeling the joy of life.

During his covert shoots the Squire had the habit of recording his
impressions in a mental note-book. He put special marks against such as
missed, or shot birds behind the waist, or placed lead in them to the