Country Life
By IAN NIALL APART from somewhat ineffective co-operation which I gave the local pigeon club this year, it is a long time since I did any serious shooting. When 1 did I used to visit some rough ground where I frequently put up a pheasant. The last time I shot there I came home with a hen pheasant, and for a long time the tail feathers of this bird were tucked behind a picture in the living room. The feet of this same pheasant, probably my last, for I have now no inclination to go rough shooting, still dangle on a piece of string where I hooked them on a nail on the wall outside. Sometimes I glance at these souvenirs and wonder how I had the energy to tramp from morning until dusk over rough country. It was long ago, but the other day I took a short cut over part of the ground on which I used to shoot and put up a hen pheasant at the exact spot where I shot my last one. It burst out across the adjoining field without a hail of shot behind it, as it still would have done had I not put it up in the close season but in November. Someone else keener on shooting will get the pheasant hen and perhaps her husband, the rufous cock that perched for a moment on the wooden gate before shooting up and over the hazels into the tangle beyond. They are not for me.
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