_His Host_ (_clutching his arm_). "Good Heavens!--You're not going to shoot that fox?"
_Brigson._ "My dear f'ller! wh'-wh'-why not? This is the last day I shall have this season--and I--I feel as if I could shoot my own mother-in-law--if she rose!"]
How happy could I be on heather, A-shooting at grouse all the day, If only the birds in high feather Would not, when I shoot, fly away!
[Illustration: _Brown_ (_after an hour's digging for the ferret_). "Call this rabbit shootin'? _I_ call it landscape gardening!"]
[Illustration: "So you don't think much of my retrievers?"
"On the contrary. I think you have two most valuable watch dogs."]
"ONCE HIT TWICE SHY."--_Guest_ (_taking keeper aside_). "Look here, Smithers"--(_gives half-a-sov._)--"Put me out o' gunshot of the Squire. He does shoot so precious wild, and my nerve isn't what it used to be!"
[Illustration: "GROUND GAME."--_Wife._ "Ah, then you've been successful at last, dear!"
_Husband_ (_prevaricating_). "Ye--yes, I bagged----"
_Wife_ (_sniffing_). "And _high_ time you did! I should say by the--oh! it must be cooked to-day!"
[_It came out afterwards the impostor had bagged it at the poulterer's_
[Illustration: SCENE--_A shooting party, August 12_ (_M. F. H. is introduced to distinguished foreigner_) "You hunt much of the fox, monsieur? I also, and have already of him shot twenty-five, and have wounded many more!"]
[Illustration: HIS "FIRST."--_Brown_ (_good chap, but never fired a gun in his life_)._ "I say, you fellows, I don't mind confessing that I am a bit nervous, you know. _I hope none of you will pepper me!_"]
["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!_"