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<pre>
The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Confessions of a Poacher, by Anonymous
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
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re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: The Confessions of a Poacher
Author: Anonymous
Editor: John Watson
Illustrator: James West
Release Date: August 4, 2011 [EBook #36970]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CONFESSIONS OF A POACHER ***
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</pre>
<p style="margin-left:20%;margin-right:20%;">"Poaching is one of the fine arts—how 'fine' only
the initiated know."</p>
<a name="Page_1" id="Page_1"></a>
<a name="frontispiece"></a><div class="figcenter" style="width:700px;padding-bottom:2em;padding-top:2em;">
<img src="images/i001.png" border="0" alt="" title="" width="622" height="700">
<p class="caption">THE SQUIRE'S KEEPER.</p></div>
<div class="linearound newpg">
<h1 style="line-height:150%;padding-top:1em;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size: .7em;">The</span><br>
Confessions<br><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size: .7em;">of a</span><br>Poacher</h1>
<div class="center" style="padding-top:1.5em;padding-bottom:.5em;margin-right:10%;margin-left:10%;line-height:1.4;">
<span style="font-weight: bold;font-size: .7em;display:block;">EDITED BY<br></span>
<span style="font-weight: bold;font-size: 1em;">JOHN WATSON, F.L.S.,<br></span>
<span style="font-weight: normal;font-size: .7em;">Author of "Nature and Woodcraft," "Sylvan Folk," &c., &c.</span>
</div>
<div class="center" style="padding-top:1.5em;padding-bottom:.5em;margin-right:10%;margin-left:10%;line-height:1.4;">
<span style="font-weight: bold;font-size: .7em;display:block;">ILLUSTRATED BY<br></span>
<span style="font-weight: bold;font-size: 1em;">JAMES WEST.</span>
</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/p004.png" border="0" alt="" title="" width="71" height="70"></div>
<div class="center" style="padding-top:.8em;padding-bottom:2em;margin-right:10%;margin-left:10%;line-height:140%;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;font-size: 1em;display:block;">LONDON:<br></span>
<span style="font-weight: normal;font-size: 1em;">The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall Street, E.C.<br></span>
<hr style="width: 30%;margin-top:.5em;margin-bottom:.5em;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;font-size: 1em;"><i>Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Co., Ltd:</i><br></span>
<span style="font-weight: normal;font-size: 1em;"><i>New York: Scribner & Welford, 743 & 745, Broadway.</i><br></span>
<hr style="width: 15%;margin-top:.5em;margin-bottom:.5em;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;font-size: 1em;">1890.</span>
</div>
</div>
<a name="Page_2" id="Page_2"></a>
<div class="figcenter newpg" style="width:700px;padding-bottom:2em;padding-top:3em;">
<img src="images/i002.png" border="0" alt="" title="" width="200" height="178">
<p class="center" style="margin-top:.25em;"><span class="smcap">The Leadenhall Press,<br>
50, Leadenhall Street, London, E.C.</span><br>T 4,463.z</p></div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" class="newpg"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3"></a>
<h2>EDITORIAL NOTE.</h2>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/p006.png" border="0" alt="" title="" width="87" height="56"></div>
<div class="figparts1">
<img class="parts" src="images/i012_worda.png" width="138" height="43" alt="The" title="">
</div>
<div class="figparts1">
<img class="parts" src="images/i012_wordb.png" width="81" height="38" alt="" title="">
</div>
<div class="figparts1">
<img class="parts" src="images/i012_wordc.png" width="138" height="22" alt="" title="">
</div>
<p style="text-indent: 0em;">poacher of these "Confessions" is no imaginary
being. In the following pages I have
set down nothing but what has come within
his own personal experience; and, although the little book
is full of strange inconsistencies, I cannot, knowing the man,
call them by a harder name. Nature made old "Phil"
a Poacher, but she made him a Sportsman and a
Naturalist at the same time. I never met any man
who was in closer sympathy with the wild creatures
about him; and never dog or child came within his
influence but what was permanently attracted by his
personality. Although eighty years of age there is still
some of the old erectness in his carriage; some of the
old fire in his eyes. As a young man he was handsome,
though now his features are battered out of all original
conception. His silvery hair still covers a lion-like head,
and his tanned cheeks are hard and firm. If his life has
been a lawless one he has paid heavily for his wrong doings. Great as a poacher, he must have been great
whatever he had been. In my boyhood he was the
hero whom I worshipped, and I hardly know that I
have gone back on my loyalty.</p>
<a name="Page_4" id="Page_4"></a>
<hr style="width: 65%;" class="newpg"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5"></a>
<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS.</h2>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/p004.png" border="0" alt="" title="" width="71" height="70"></div>
<table border="0" width="70%" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="6" summary="Contents" align="center">
<tr style="vertical-align:bottom;">
<th colspan="2" style="text-align:left;font-weight:normal;width:90%;padding-bottom: 0em;"><span class="smaller">CHAPTER</span></th>
<th colspan="2" style="text-align:center;font-weight:normal;width:10%;padding-bottom: 0em;"><span class="smaller">PAGE</span></th>
</tr>
<tr style="vertical-align:top;">
<td style="text-align:right;width:10%;">1. </td>
<td style="text-align:left;width:80%;"><span class="toctext smcap">The Embryo Poacher</span></td>
<td style="text-align:right;width:7%;"><a href="#CHAPTER_1">7</a></td>
<td style="width:3%;"> </td>
</tr>
<tr style="vertical-align:top;">
<td style="text-align:right;">2. </td>
<td style="text-align:left;"><span class="toctext smcap">Under the Night</span></td>
<td style="text-align:right;"><a href="#CHAPTER_2">19</a></td>
<td> </td>
</tr>
<tr style="vertical-align:top;">
<td style="text-align:right;">3. </td>
<td style="text-align:left;"><span class="toctext smcap">Graduating in Woodcraft</span></td>
<td style="text-align:right;"><a href="#CHAPTER_3">32</a></td>
<td> </td>
</tr>
<tr style="vertical-align:top;">
<td style="text-align:right;">4. </td>
<td style="text-align:left;"><span class="toctext smcap">Partridge Poaching</span></td>
<td style="text-align:right;"><a href="#CHAPTER_4">45</a></td>
<td> </td>
</tr>
<tr style="vertical-align:top;">
<td style="text-align:right;">5. </td>
<td style="text-align:left;"><span class="toctext smcap">Hare Poaching</span></td>
<td style="text-align:right;"><a href="#CHAPTER_5">57</a></td>
<td> </td>
</tr>
<tr style="vertical-align:top;">
<td style="text-align:right;">6. </td>
<td style="text-align:left;"><span class="toctext smcap">Pheasant Poaching</span></td>
<td style="text-align:right;"><a href="#CHAPTER_6">74</a></td>
<td> </td>
</tr>
<tr style="vertical-align:top;">
<td style="text-align:right;">7. </td>
<td style="text-align:left;"><span class="toctext smcap">Salmon and Trout Poaching</span></td>
<td style="text-align:right;"><a href="#CHAPTER_7">90</a></td>
<td> </td>
</tr>
<tr style="vertical-align:top;">
<td style="text-align:right;">8. </td>
<td style="text-align:left;"><span class="toctext smcap">Grouse Poaching</span></td>
<td style="text-align:right;"><a href="#CHAPTER_8">109</a></td>
<td> </td>
</tr>
<tr style="vertical-align:top;">
<td style="text-align:right;">9. </td>
<td style="text-align:left;"><span class="toctext smcap">Rabbit Poaching</span></td>
<td style="text-align:right;"><a href="#CHAPTER_9">123</a></td>
<td> </td>
</tr>
<tr style="vertical-align:top;">
<td style="text-align:right;">10. </td>
<td style="text-align:left;"><span class="toctext smcap">Tricks</span></td>
<td style="text-align:right;"><a href="#CHAPTER_10">135</a></td>
<td> </td>
</tr>
<tr style="vertical-align:top;">
<td style="text-align:right;">11. </td>
<td style="text-align:left;"><span class="toctext smcap">Personal Encounters</span></td>
<td style="text-align:right;"><a href="#CHAPTER_11">151</a></td>
<td> </td>
</tr>
</table>
<a name="Page_6" id="Page_6"></a>
<hr style="width: 65%;" class="newpg"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7"></a>
<div style="padding-top:1.5em;padding-bottom:1em;margin-right:10%;margin-left:10%;">
<p style="font-weight: bold;font-size: 1.25em;display:block;" class="center">THE</p>
<p style="font-weight: bold;font-size: 1.25em;" class="center">CONFESSIONS OF A POACHER.</p>
</div>
<a name="CHAPTER_1"></a>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/i003.png" border="0" alt="Chapter 1." title="" width="700" height="363"></div>
<hr style="width: 20%;margin-top:.5em;margin-bottom:.06em;">
<hr style="width: 20%;margin-bottom:1em;margin-top:.06em;">
<h2 class="smcap">The Embryo Poacher.</h2>
<div class="figparts1">
<img class="parts" src="images/i003_worda.png" width="140" height="38" alt="I do" title="">
</div>
<div class="figparts1">
<img class="parts" src="images/i003_wordb.png" width="69" height="65" alt="" title="">
</div>
<p style="text-indent: 0em;">not remember the time when I was
not a poacher; and if I may say so, I
believe our family has always had a
genius for woodcraft.</p>
<p>I was bred on the outskirts of a sleepy
town in a good game country, and my depredations
were mostly when the Game Laws<a name="Page_8" id="Page_8"></a>
were less rigorously enforced than now. Our
home was roughly adorned in fur and feather,
and a number of gaunt lurchers always
constituted part of the family. An almost
passionate love of nature, summers of birds'
nesting, and a life spent almost wholly out of
doors constituted an admirable training for an
embryo poacher. If it is true that poets are
born, not made, it is equally so of poachers.
The successful "moucher" must be an inborn
naturalist—must have much in common with
the creatures of the fields and woods around
him.</p>
<div class="figright" style="padding-bottom:.3em;padding-top:.3em;"><img src="images/i004.png" border="0" alt="Bird" title="" width="500" height="358"></div>
<p>There is a miniature bird and animal fauna
which constitutes as important game to the
young poacher as any he is likely to come
across in after life. There are mice, shrews,
voles, for all of which he sets some primitive
snare and captures. The silky-coated moles
in their runs offer more serious work, and
being most successfully practised at night,
offers an additional charm. Then there are
the red-furred squirrels which hide among the
delicate leaves of the beeches and run up their<a name="Page_9" id="Page_9"></a>
grey boles—fairy things that offer an endless
subject of delight to any young savage, and
their capturing draws largely upon his inventive
genius. A happy hunting ground is furnished
by farmers who require a lad to keep the birds
from their young wheat or corn, as when their
services are required the country is all like a
garden. At this time the birds seem creatures
born of the sun, and not only are they seen in
their brightest plumage, but when indulging in
all their love frolics. By being employed by
the farmers the erstwhile poacher is brought
right into the heart of the land, and the knowledge
of woodcraft and rural life he there
acquires is never forgotten. As likely as not
a ditch runs by the side of the wheat
fields, and here the water-hen leads out
her brood. To the same spot the birds come
at noon to indulge their mid-day <i>siesta</i>, and in
the deep hole at the end of the cut a shoal of
silvery roach fall and rise towards the warm
sunlight. Or a brook, which is a tiny trout
stream, babbles on through the meadows and
pastures, and has its attractions too. A stream<a name="Page_10" id="Page_10"></a>
is always the chief artery of the land, as in it
are found the life-giving elements. All the
birds, all the plants, flock to its banks, and its
wooded sides are hushed by the subdued hum
of insects. There are tall green brackens—brackens
unfurling their fronds to the light,
and full of the atoms of beautiful summer. At
the bend of the stream is a lime, and you may
almost see its glutinous leaves unfolding to
the light. Its winged flowers are infested with
bees. It has a
dead bough almost
at the bottom
of its bole,
and upon it there
sits a grey-brown
bird. Ever and
anon it darts
for a moment,
hovers over the
stream, and then returns to its perch. A
hundred times it flutters, secures its insect
prey, and takes up its old position on the
stump. Bronze fly, bluebottle, and droning<a name="Page_13" id="Page_13"></a><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12"></a><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11"></a>
bee are secured alike, for all serve as food
to the loveable pied fly-catcher.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/i005.png" border="0" alt="Boy Fishing" title="" width="700" height="459"></div>
<p>It is the time of the bloom of the first June
rose; and here, by the margin of the wood, all
the ground by fast falling blossom is littered.
Every blade teems with life, and the air is instinct
with the very breath of being. Birds'
sounds are coming from over and under—from
bough and brake, and a harmonious discord is
flooded from the neighbouring copse. The
oak above my head is a murmurous haunt of
summer wings, and wood pigeons coo from
the beeches. The air is still, and summer is
on my cheek; arum, wood-sorrel, and celandine
mingle at my feet. The starlings are
half buried in the fresh green grass, their
metallic plumage flashing in the sun. Cattle
are lazily lying dotted over the meadows, and
the stream is done in a setting of green and
gold. Swallows, skimming the pools, dip in
the cool water, and are gone—leaving a sweet
commotion in ever widening circles long after
they have flown. A mouse-like creeper alights
at the foot of a thorn, and runs nimbly up the<a name="Page_14" id="Page_14"></a>
bark; midway it enters a hole in which is its
nest. A garrulous blue-winged jay chatters
from the tall oak, and purple rooks are picking
among the corn. Butterflies dally through the
warm air, and insects swarm among the leaves
and flowers of the hedge bottoms. A crake
calls, now here, now far out yonder. Bluebells
carpet the wood-margin, and the bog is
bright with marsh plants.</p>
<p>This, then, is the workshop of the young
poacher, and here he receives his first impressions.
Is it strange that a mighty yearning
springs up within him to know more of nature's
secrets? He finds himself in a fairy place,
and all unconsciously drinks in its sweets. See
him now deeply buried in a golden flood of
marsh marigolds! See how he stands spellbound
before saxifrages which cling to a
dripping rock. Water avens, wild parsley,
and campions crowd around him, and flags
of the yellow and purple iris tower over all.
He watches the doings of the reed-sparrows
deep down in the flags, and sees a water-ouzel
as it rummages among the pebbles at the<a name="Page_15" id="Page_15"></a>
bottom of the brook. The larvæ of caddis
flies, which cover the edge of the stream, are
a curious mystery to him, and he sees the
kingfisher dart away as a bit of green light.
Small silvery trout, which rise in the pool,
tempt him to try for them with a crooked pin,
and even now with success. He hears the
cuckoos crying and calling as they fly from
tree to tree, and quite unexpectedly finds the
nest of a yellow-hammer, between a willow
and the bank, containing its <a name="tn_png_18"></a><!--TN: "curiouly" changed to "curiously"-->curiously speckled
eggs.</p>
<p>Still the life, and the "hush," and the
breath go on. Everything breathes, and
moves, and has its being; the things of the
day are the essence thereof. On the margin
of the wood are a few young pines, their delicate
plumes just touched with the loveliest
green. An odour of resinous gum is wafted
from them, and upon one of the slender sprays
a pair of diminutive goldcrests have hung their
procreant cradle. These things are enough to
win any young Bohemian to their ways,
and although as yet they only comprise "the<a name="Page_16" id="Page_16"></a>
country," soon their wondrous detail lures
their lover on, and he seeks to satisfy the
thirst within him by night as well as by day.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="padding-bottom:.3em;padding-top:.3em;"><img src="images/i006.png" border="0" alt="Man Kneeling in Woods" title="" width="492" height="600"></div>
<p>Endless acquaintances are to be made
in the fields, and those of the most pleasurable
description. Nests containing young
squirrels can be found in the larch tree tops,
and any domestic tabby will suckle these
delightful playthings. Young cushats and
cushats' eggs can be obtained from their
wicker-like nests, and sold in the villages. A
prickly pet may be captured in a hedgehog
trotting off through the long grass, and colonies
of young wild rabbits may be dug from
the mounds and braes. The skin of every
velvety mole is one patch nearer the accomplishment
of a warm, furry vest for winter,
and this, if the pests of which it is comprised
are the owner's taking, is worn with pardonable
pride. A moleskin vest constitutes a graduation
in woodcraft so to speak. Sometimes a
brace of leverets are found in a tussocky grass
clump, but these are more often allowed to
remain than taken. And there are almost<a name="Page_17" id="Page_17"></a>
innumerable captures to be made among the
feathered as well as furred things of the fields
and woods. Chaffinches are taken in nooses
among the corn, as are larks and buntings.
Crisp cresses from the springs constitute an
important source of income, and the embrowned
nuts of autumn a harvest in themselves. It is
during his early days of working upon the
land that the erstwhile
poacher learns of the
rain-bringing tides;
of the time of
migration of
birds; of the
evening gamboling
of hares; of
the coming together
of the
partridge to
roost; of the
spawning of
salmon and
trout; and a hundred
other scraps<a name="Page_18" id="Page_18"></a>
of knowledge which will serve him in good
stead in his subsequent protest against the
Game Laws.</p>
<p>Almost every young rustic who develops into
a poacher has some such outdoor education as
that sketched above. He has about him
much ready animal ingenuity, and is capable
of almost infinite resource. His snares and
lines are constructed with his pocket knife, out
of material he finds ready to hand in the woods.
He early learns to imitate the call of the game
birds, so accurately as to deceive even the
birds themselves; and his weather-stained
clothes seem to take on themselves the duns
and browns and olives of the woods. A child
brought up in the lap of Nature is invariably
deeply marked with her impress, and we shall
see to what end she has taught him.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" class="newpg"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19"></a>
<a name="CHAPTER_2"></a>
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<h2 class="smcap">Under the Night.</h2>
<div class="poem" style="margin-bottom:1em;margin-top:1em;">
<span class="i0">Now came still evening on, and twilight gray<br></span>
<span class="i0">Had in her sober liv'ry all things clad.<br></span>
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<p style="text-indent: 0em;">the embryo poacher has once
tasted the forbidden fruits of the
land—and it matters not if his
game be but field-mice and squirrels—there is
only one thing wanting to win him completely
to Nature's ways. This is that he shall see
her sights and hear her sounds under the night.
There is a charm about the night side of nature
that the town dweller can never know. I<a name="Page_20" id="Page_20"></a>
have been once in London, and well remember
what, as a country lad, impressed me
most. It was the fact that I had, during the
small hours of the morning, stood alone on
London Bridge. The great artery of life was
still; the pulse of the city had ceased to beat.
Not a moving object was visible. Although
bred among the lonely hills, I felt for the
first time that this was to be alone; that
this was solitude. I felt such a sense as
Macaulay's New Zealander may experience
when he sits upon the ruins of the same stupendous
structure; and it was then for the
first time I knew whence the inspiration, and
felt the full force and realism of a line I had
heard, "O God! the very houses seemed to
sleep." I could detect no definite sound, only
that vague and distant hum that for ever
haunts and hangs over a great city. Then
my thoughts flew homeward (to the fells and
upland fields, to the cold mists by the river, to
the deep and sombre woods). I had never observed
such a time of quiet there; no absolute
and general period of repose. There was<a name="Page_21" id="Page_21"></a>
always something abroad,
some creature of the
fields or woods, which
by its voice or movements
was betrayed.
Just as in an old rambling
house there
are always strange
noises that cannot
be accounted for, so
in the night-paths of
nature there are innumerable
sounds which can never be localised.
To those, however, who pursue night avocations
in the country, there are always calls and cries
which bespeak life as animate under the night
as that of the day. This is attributable to
various animals and birds, to beetles, to night-flying
insects, even to fish; and part of the
education of the young poacher is to track
these sounds to their source.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="padding-bottom:.3em;padding-top:.3em;"><img src="images/i009.png" border="0" alt="Father and Mother and Two Dogs" title="" width="570" height="600"></div>
<p>I have said that our family was a family of
poachers. The old instinct was in us all,
though I believe that the same wild spirit<a name="Page_22" id="Page_22"></a>
which drove us to <a name="tn_png_25"></a><!--TN: "the the" changed to "the"-->the moor and covert at
night was only the same as was strongly implanted
in the breast of Lord ——, our
neighbour, who was a legitimate sportsman
and a Justice of the Peace. If we were not
allowed to see much real poaching when
we were young
we saw a good
deal of the preparations
for it.
As the leaves
began to turn in
autumn there
was great activity
in our old
home among
nets and snares.
When wind and
feather were
<a name="tn_png_25a"></a><!--TN: "avourable" changed to "favourable"-->favourable,
late afternoon
brought home my father, and his wires
and nets were already spread on the clean
sanded floor. There was a peg to sharpen, or<a name="Page_23" id="Page_23"></a>
a broken mesh to mend. Every now and then
he would look out on the darkening night,
always directing his glance upward. The two
dogs would whine impatiently to be gone, and
in an hour, with bulky pockets, he would start,
striking right across the land and away from
the high road. The dogs would prick out
their ears on the track, but stuck doggedly to
his heels; and then, as we watched, the darkness
would blot him out of the landscape, and
we turned with our mother to the fireside. In
summer we saw little but the "breaking" of
the lurchers. These dogs take long to train,
but, when perfected, are invaluable. All the
best lurchers are the produce of a cross
between the sheep-dog and greyhound, a
combination which secures the speed and silence
of the one, and the "nose" of the other.
From the batches of puppies we always saved
such as were rough-coated, as these were
better able to stand the exposure of long,
cold nights. In colour the best are fawn or
brown—some shade which assimilates well to
the duns and browns and yellows of the fields<a name="Page_24" id="Page_24"></a>
and woods; but our extended knowledge of
the dogs came in after years.</p>
<p>The oak gun-rack in our old home contained
a motley collection of fowling pieces,
mostly with the barrels filed down. This was
that the pieces might be more conveniently
stowed away in the pocket until it was
policy to have them out. The guns showed
every graduation in age, size, and make, and
among them was an old flint-lock which had
been in the family for generations. This heirloom
was often surreptitiously stolen away,
and then we were able to bring down larger
game. Wood pigeons were waited for in the
larches, and shot as they came to roost. The
crakes were called by the aid of a small
"crank," and shot as they emerged from the
lush summer grass. Large numbers of green
plover were bagged from time to time, and
often in winter we had a chance at their grey
cousins, the whistling species. Both these fed
in the water-meadows through winter, and
the former were always abundant. In
spring, "trips" of rare dotterel often led us<a name="Page_25" id="Page_25"></a>
about the higher hills for days, and sometimes
we had to stay all night on the mountain.
Then we were up with the first gray light in
the morning, and generally managed to bring
down a few birds. The feathers of these are
extremely valuable for fishing, and my father
invariably supplied them to the county justices
who lived near us. He trained a dog to hunt
dotterel, and so find their nests, and in this
was most successful—more so than an eminent
naturalist who spent five consecutive
summers about the summits of our highest
mountains, though without ever coming across
a nest or seeing the birds. Sometimes we
bagged a gaunt heron as it flapped heavily from<a name="Page_26" id="Page_26"></a>
a ditch—a greater fish poacher than any in the
country side. One of our great resorts on
winter evenings was to an island which bordered
a disused mill-dam. This was thickly
covered with aquatic vegetation, and to it
came teal, mallard, and poachard. All through
the summer we had worked assiduously at a
small "dug-out," and in this we waited, snugly
stowed away behind a willow root. When the
ducks appeared on the sky-line the old flint-lock
was out, a sharp report tore the darkness,
and a brace of teal or mallard floated down
stream, and on to the mill island. In this way
half a dozen ducks would be bagged, and, dead
or dying, they were left where they fell, and
retrieved next morning. Sometimes big game
was obtained in the shape of a brace of geese,
which proved themselves the least wary of a
flock; but these only came in the severest
weather.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:.1em;padding-top:.1em;"><img src="images/i010.png" border="0" alt="Flying Heron" title="" width="700" height="303"></div>
<p>Cutting the coppice, assisting the charcoal
burners, or helping the old woodman—all gave
facilities for observing the habits of game, and
none of these opportunities were missed. In<a name="Page_27" id="Page_27"></a>
this way we were brought right into the heart
of the land, and our evil genius was hardly
suspected. An early incident in the woods is
worth recording. I have already said that we
took snipe and woodcock by means of "gins"
and "springes," and one morning on going to
examine a snare, we discovered a large buzzard
near one which was "struck." The bird endeavoured
to escape, but, being evidently held
fast, could not. A woodcock had been taken
in one of our snares, which, while fluttering,
had been seen and attacked by the buzzard.
Not content, however, with the body of the
woodcock, it had swallowed a leg also, around
which the nooze was drawn, and the limb was
so securely lodged in its stomach that no force
which the bird could exert could withdraw it.
The gamekeepers would employ us to take
hedgehogs, which we did in steel traps baited
with eggs. These prickly little animals were
justly blamed for robbing pheasants' nests, and
many a one paid the penalty for so doing.
We received so much per head for the capture of
these, as also for moles which tunnelled the<a name="Page_28" id="Page_28"></a>
banks of the water meadows. Being injurious
to the stream sides and the young larches, the
farmers were anxious to rid these; and one
summer we received a commission to exercise
our knowledge of field-craft against them. But
in the early days our greatest successes were
among the sea ducks and wildfowl which
haunted the marram-covered flats and ooze
banks of an inland bay a few miles from our
home. Mention of our capturing the sea
birds brings to mind some very early rabbit
poaching. At dusk the rabbits used to come
down from the woods, and on to the sandy saline
tracts to nibble the short sea grass. As
twilight came we used to lie quiet among the
rocks and boulders, and, armed with the old
flint-lock, knock over the rabbits as soon as
they had settled to feed. But this was only
tasting the delights of that first experience in
"fur" which was to become so widely developed
in future years. Working a duck
decoy—when we knew where we had the
decoyman—was another profitable night adventure,
which sometimes produced dozens<a name="Page_29" id="Page_29"></a>
of delicate teal, mallard and widgeon. Another
successful method of taking seafowl was by
the "fly" or "ring" net. When there was
but little or no moon these were set across
the banks last covered by the tide. The
nets were made of fine thread, and hung
on poles from ten to twenty yards apart. Care
had to be taken to do this loosely, so as to give
the nets plenty of "bag." Sometimes we had
these nets hung for half a mile along the mud
flats, and curfew, whimbrel, geese, ducks, and
various shore-haunting birds were taken in
them. Sometimes a bunch of teal, flying down
wind, would break right through the net and
escape. This, however, was not a frequent
occurrence.</p>
<p>There is one kind of poaching, which, as a
lad, I was forbidden, and I have never indulged
in it from that day to this. This was egg
poaching. In our own district it was carried
on to a large extent, though I never heard
of it until the artificial rearing of game
came in. The squire's keeper will give sixpence
each for pheasants' eggs, and fourpence<a name="Page_30" id="Page_30"></a>
for those of partridges. I know for certain
that he often buys eggs (unknowingly, of
course) from his master's preserves as well as
those of his neighbours. In the hedge bottom,
along the covert side, or among broom and
gorse, the farm labourer notices a pair of
partridges roaming morning after morning.
Soon he finds their oak-leaf nest and olive
eggs. These the keeper readily buys, winking
at what he knows to be dishonest. Ploughboys
and farm labourers have peculiarly favourable
opportunities for egg poaching. As
to pheasants' eggs, if the keeper be an honest
man and refuses to buy, there are always large
town dealers who will. Once in the coverts
pheasants' eggs are easily found. The birds
get up heavily from their nests, and go away
with a loud whirring of wings. In this species
of poaching women and children are largely
employed, and at the time the former are ostensibly
gathering sticks, the latter wild flowers.
I have known the owner of the "smithy," who
was the receiver in our village, send to London
in the course of a week a thousand eggs, every<a name="Page_31" id="Page_31"></a>
one of them gathered off the neighbouring
estates.</p>
<p>When I say that I never indulged in egg
poaching I do not set up for being any better
than my neighbours. I had been forbidden to
do it as a lad because my father give it
the ugly name of thieving, and it had never
tempted me aside. It was tame work at best,
and there was none of the exhilarating fascination
about it that I found in going after the
game birds themselves.</p>
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<h2 class="smcap">Graduating in Woodcraft.</h2>
<div class="poem" style="padding-top:1em;padding-bottom:1em;">
<span class="i0">We hear the cry<br></span>
<span class="i1">Of their voices high,<br></span>
<span class="i0">Falling dreamily through the sky;<br></span>
<span class="i1">But their forms we cannot see.<br></span>
</div>
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<img class="parts" src="images/i011_worda.png" width="157" height="46" alt="Just" title="">
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<p style="text-indent: 0em;">as the sportsman loves "rough
shooting," so the poacher invariably
chooses wild ground for his depredations.
There is hardly a sea-parish in the
country which has not its shore shooter, its
poacher, and its fowler. Fortunately for my
graduation in woodcraft I fell in with one of the
latter at the very time I most needed his instructions.
As the "Snig," as I was generally
called, was so passionately fond of "live"
things, old "Kittiwake" was quite prepared to<a name="Page_33" id="Page_33"></a>
be companionable. Although nearly three
score years and ten divided our lives, there
was something in common between us. Love
of being abroad beneath the moon and stars;
of wild wintry skies; of the weird cries that
came from out the darkness—love of everything
indeed that pertained to the night side
of nature. What terrible tales of the sands
and marshes the old man would tell as we sat
in his turf-covered cottage, listening to the
lashing storm and driving water without. Occasionally
we heard sounds of the Demon
Huntsman and his Wish-hounds as they crossed
the wintry skies. If Kittiwake knew, he would
never admit that these were the wild swans
coming from the north, which chose the
darkest nights for their migration. When my
old tutor saw that I was already skilled in the
use of "gins" and "springes," and sometimes
brought in a snipe or woodcock, his old
eyes glistened as he looked upon the marsh-birds.
It was on one such occasion, pleased
at my success, that he offered what he had
never offered to mortal—to teach me the whole<a name="Page_34" id="Page_34"></a>
art of fowling. I remember the old man as he
lay on his heather bench when he made this
magnanimous offer. In appearance he was a
splendid type of a northern yeoman, his face
fringed with silvery hair, and cut in the finest
features. One eye was bright and clear even
at his great age, though the other was rheumy,
and almost blotted out. He rarely undressed
at nights, his outward garb seemed more
a production of nature than of art, and was
changed, when, like the outer cuticle of the
marsh vipers, it sloughed off. It was only in
winter that the old man lived his lonely life on
the mosses and marshes, for during the summer
he turned from fowler to fisher, or assisted in
the game preserves. The haunts and habits of
the marsh and shore birds he knew by heart,
and his great success in taking them lay in the
fact that he was a close and accurate observer.
He would watch the fowl, then set his nets and
noozes by the light of his acquired knowledge.
These things he had always known, but it was
in summer, when he was assisting at pheasant
rearing, that he got to know all about game<a name="Page_35" id="Page_35"></a>
in fur and feather. He noted that the handsome
cock pheasants always crowed before
they flew up to roost; that in the evening the
partridges called as they came together in the
grass lands; and he watched the ways of the
hares as they skipped in the moonlight. These
things we were wont to discuss when wild
weather prevented our leaving the hut; and
all our plans were tested by experiment before
they were put into practice. It was upon
these occasions, too, that the garrulous old
man would tell of his early life. That was the
time for fowl; but now the plough had invaded
the sea-birds' haunt. He would tell of
immense flocks of widgeon, of banks of brent
geese, and clouds of dunlin. Bitterns used to
boom and breed in the bog, and once, though
only once, a great bustard was shot. In his
young days Kittiwake had worked a decoy, as
had his father and grandfather before him;
and when any stray fowler or shore-shooter
told of the effect of a single shot of their big
punt-guns, he would cap their stories by
going back to the days of decoying. Although<a name="Page_36" id="Page_36"></a>
decoying had almost gone out, this was the
only subject that the old man was reticent
upon, and he surrounded the craft with
all the mystery he was able to conjure up.
The site of his once famous decoy was now
drained, and in summer ruddy corn waved
above it. Besides myself, Kittiwake's sole
companion on the mosses was an old shaggy
galloway, and it was almost as eccentric and
knowing as its master. So great was the number
of gulls and terns that bred on the mosses,
that for two months during the breeding
season the old horse was fed upon their eggs.
Morning and evening a basketful was collected,
and so long as these lasted Dobbin's
coat continued sleek and soft.</p>
<p>In August and September we would capture
immense numbers of "flappers"—plump wild
ducks—but, as yet, unable to fly. These were
either caught in the pools, or chased into nets
which we set to intercept them. As I now
took more than my share of the work, and
made all the gins, springes, and noozes which
we used, a rough kind of partnership sprung<a name="Page_37" id="Page_37"></a>
up between us. The young ducks brought us
good prices, and there was another source of
income which paid well, but was not of long
duration. There is a short period in each year
when even the matured wild ducks are quite
unable to fly. The male of the common wild
duck is called the mallard, and soon after his
brown duck begins to sit the drake moults the
whole of its flight feathers. So sudden and
simultaneous is this process that for six weeks
in summer the usually handsome drake is quite
incapable of flight, and it is probably at this
period of its ground existence that the assumption
of the duck's plumage is such an aid
to protection. Quite the handsomest of the
wildfowl on the marsh were a colony of sheldrakes
which occupied a number of disused
rabbit-burrows on a raised plateau overlooking
the bay. The ducks were bright chestnut,
white, and purple, and in May laid from nine
to a dozen creamy eggs. As these birds
brought high prices for stocking ornamental
waters, we used to collect the eggs and hatch
them out under hens in the turf cottage. This<a name="Page_38" id="Page_38"></a>
was a quite successful experiment up to a
certain point; but the young fowl, immediately
they were hatched, seemed to be able to smell
the salt water, and would cover miles to gain
the creek. With all our combined watchfulness
the downy ducklings sometimes <a name="tn_png_41"></a><!--TN: "sucseeded" changed to "succeeded"-->succeeded
in reaching their loved briny element,
and once in the sea were never seen again.
The pretty sea swallows used to breed on the
marsh, and the curious ruffs and reeves. These
indulged in the strangest flights at breeding
time, and it was then that we used to capture
the greatest numbers. We took them alive in
nets, and then fattened them on soaked wheat.
The birds were sent all the way to London,
and brought good prices. By being kept
closely confined and frequently fed, in a fortnight
they became so plump as to resemble
balls of fat, and then brought as much as
a florin a piece. If care were not taken to kill
the birds just when they attained to their
greatest degree of fatness they fell rapidly in
condition, and were nearly worthless. To kill
them we were wont to pinch off the head, and<a name="Page_39" id="Page_39"></a>
when all the blood had exuded the flesh remained
white and delicate. Greater delicacies
even than ruffs and reeves were godwits, which
were fatted in like manner for the table.
Experiments in fattening were upon one occasion
<a name="tn_png_42"></a><!--TN: "succesfully" changed to "successfully"-->successfully tried with a brood of greylag
geese which we discovered on the marshes.
As this is the species from which the domestic
stock is descended, we found little difficulty in
herding, though we were always careful to
house them at night, and pinioned them as the
time of the autumnal migration came round.
We well knew that the skeins of wild geese
which at this time nightly cross the sky, calling
as they fly, would soon have robbed us of our
little flock.</p>
<p>In winter, snipe were always numerous on
the mosses, and were among the first birds to
be affected by severe weather. If on elevated
ground when the frost set in, they immediately
betake themselves to the lowlands, and at these
times we used to take them in pantles made of
twisted horsehair. In preparing these we
trampled a strip of oozy ground until, in the<a name="Page_40" id="Page_40"></a>
darkness, it had the appearance of a narrow
plash of water. The snipe were taken as they
came to feed on ground presumably containing
food of which they were fond. As well
as woodcock and snipe, we took larks by
thousands. The pantles for these we set somewhat
differently than those intended for the
minor game birds. A main line, sometimes as
much as a hundred yards in length, was set
along the marsh; and to this at short intervals
were attached a great number of loops of
horsehair in which the birds were strangled.
During the migratory season, or in winter
when larks are flocked, sometimes a hundred
bunches of a dozen each would be taken in a
single day.</p>
<p>During the rigour of winter great flocks of
migratory ducks and geese came to the bay,
and prominent among them were immense
flocks of scoters. Often from behind an ooze
bank did we watch parties of these playing and
chasing each other over the crests of the
waves, seeming indifferent to the roughest seas.
The coming of the scoter brought flush times,<a name="Page_41" id="Page_41"></a>
and in hard weather our takes were tremendous.
Another of the wild ducks which
visited us was the pochard or dunbird. We
mostly called it "poker" and "redhead,"
owing to the bright chestnut of its neck and
head. It is somewhat heavily made, swims
low in the water, and from its legs being
placed far behind for diving it is very awkward
on land. In winter the pochard was abundant
on the coast, but as it was one of the shyest of
fowl it was always difficult to approach. If
alarmed it paddles rapidly away, turning its
head, and always keeping an eye to the rear.
On account of its wariness it is oftener netted
than shot. The shore-shooters hardly ever
get a chance at it. We used to take it in the
creeks on the marsh, and, as the matter is
difficult to explain, I will let the following
quotation tell how it was done:</p>
<p>"The water was surrounded with huge nets,
fastened with poles laid flat on the ground
when ready for action, each net being, perhaps,
sixty feet long and twenty feet deep. When
all was ready the pochards were frightened off<a name="Page_42" id="Page_42"></a>
the water. Like all diving ducks they were
obliged to fly low for some distance, and also
to head the wind before rising. Just as the
mass of birds reached the side of the pool, one
of the immense nets, previously regulated by
weights and springs, rose upright as it was
freed from its fastenings by the fowler from a
distance with a long rope. If this were done
at the right moment the ducks were met full
in the face by a wall of net, and thrown helpless
into a deep ditch dug at its foot for their
reception."</p>
<p>In addition to our nets and snares we had
a primitive fowling-piece, though we only
used it when other methods failed. It was an
ancient flint-lock, with tremendously long
barrels. Sometimes it went off; oftener it did
not. I well remember with what desperation
I, upon one occasion, clung to this murderous
weapon whilst it meditated, so to speak. It is
true that it brought down quite a wisp of
dunlins, but then there was almost a cloud of
them to fire at. These and golden plover
were mainly the game for the flint-lock, and<a name="Page_43" id="Page_43"></a>
with them we were peculiarly successful.
If we had not been out all night we were
invariably abroad at dawn, when golden
plover fly and feed in close bodies. Upon
these occasions sometimes a dozen birds were
bagged at a shot, though, after all, the chief
product of our days were obtained in the
cymbal nets. We invariably used a decoy,
and when the wild birds were brought down,
and came within the workings of the net, it
was rapidly pulled over and the game secured.
For the most part, however, only the smaller
birds were taken in this way. Coots came
round in their season, and although they
yielded a good harvest, netting them was not
very profitable, for as their flesh was dark and
fishy only the villagers and fisher-folk would
buy them.</p>
<p>A curious little bird, the grebe or dabchick,
used to haunt the pools and ditches of the
marsh, and we not unfrequently caught them
in the nets whilst drawing for salmon which
ran up the creek to spawn. They had
curious feet, lobed like chestnut leaves, and<a name="Page_44" id="Page_44"></a>
hardly any wing. This last was more like a
flipper, and upon one occasion, when no less
than three had caught in the meshes, a dispute
arose between us as to whether they were able
to fly. Kittiwake and I argued that whilst
they were resident and bred in the marshes,
yet their numbers were greatly augmented in
autumn by other birds which came to spend
the winter. Whilst I contended that they
flew, Kittiwake said that their tiny wings could
never support them, and certainly neither of us
had ever seen them on their journeyings. Two
of the birds we took a mile from the water,
and then threw them into the air, when they
darted off straight and swift for the mosses
which lay stretched at our feet a mile below.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" class="newpg"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45"></a>
<a name="CHAPTER_4" id="CHAPTER_4"></a>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/i012.png" border="0" alt="Chapter 4." title="" width="700" height="328"></div>
<hr style="width: 20%;margin-top:.5em;margin-bottom:.06em;">
<hr style="width: 20%;margin-bottom:1em;margin-top:.06em;">
<h2 class="smcap">Partridge Poaching.</h2>
<div class="figparts1">
<img class="parts" src="images/i012_worda.png" width="138" height="43" alt="The" title="">
</div>
<div class="figparts1">
<img class="parts" src="images/i012_wordb.png" width="81" height="38" alt="" title="">
</div>
<div class="figparts1">
<img class="parts" src="images/i012_wordc.png" width="138" height="22" alt="" title="">
</div>
<p style="text-indent: 0em;">bloom on the brambles; the ripening
of the nuts; and the ruddiness of the
corn all acted as reminders that the
"fence" time was rapidly drawing to a close.
So much did the first frosts quicken us that it
was <a name="tn_png_48"></a><!--TN: "dfficult" changed to "difficult"-->difficult to resist throwing up our farm work
before the game season was fairly upon us.
There was only one way in which we could curb
the wild impulse within. We stood up to the
golden corn and smote it from the rising to the
going down of the sun. The hunters' moon tried<a name="Page_46" id="Page_46"></a>
hard to win us to the old hard life of sport;
but still the land must be cleared. There was
a double pleasure in the ruddy sheaves, for
they told of golden guineas, and until the
last load was carried neither nets, gins, nor the
old duck-gun were of any use. The harvest
housed the game could begin, and then the
sweet clover, which the hares loved, first
pushed their shoots between the stubble stalks.
But neither the hares on the fallows, the
grouse on the moor, nor the pheasants on the
bare branches brought us so much pleasure as
the partridge. A whole army of shooters love
the little brown birds, and we are quite of
their way of thinking.</p>
<p>A long life of poaching has not cooled our
ardour for this phase of woodcraft. At the outset
we may state that we have almost invariably
observed close times, and have rarely killed a
hare or game-bird out of season. The man
who excels in poaching must be country bred.
He must not only know the land, but the
ways of the game by heart. Every sign of
wind and weather must be observed, as all<a name="Page_47" id="Page_47"></a>
help in the silent trade. Then there is the
rise and wane of the moon, the rain-bringing
tides, and the shifting of the birds with the
seasons. These and a hundred other things
must be kept in an unwritten calendar, and
only the poacher can keep it. Speaking from
hard experience, his out-door life will make
him quick; will endow him with much ready
animal ingenuity. He will take in an immense
amount of knowledge of the life of the fields
and woods; and it is this teaching which will
ultimately give him accuracy of eye and judgment
sufficient to interpret what he sees aright.
To succeed the poacher must be a specialist.
It is better if he directs his attention to "fur,"
or to "feather" alone; but it is terribly hard
to resist going in for both. There is less
scope for field ingenuity in taking game birds;
but at the same time there is always the probability
of more wholesale destruction. This
arises from the fact of the birds being gregarious.
Both grouse and partridge go in
coveys, and pheasants are found in the company
of their own kind. Partridges roost on<a name="Page_48" id="Page_48"></a>
the ground, and sleep with tails tucked
together and heads outwards. Examine the
fallow after they have left it in a morning, and
this will be at once apparent. A covey in this
position represents little more than a mass of
feathers. It is for protective reasons that
partridges always spend their nights in the
open. Birds which do not perch would soon
become extinct were they to seek the protection
of woods and hedge-bottoms by night.
Such ground generally affords cover for
vermin—weazels, polecats, and stoats. Although
partridges roam far by day, they
invariably come together at night, being partial
to the same fields and fallows. They run
much, and rarely fly, except when passing from
one feeding ground to another. In coming
together in the evening their calls may be
heard to some distance. These were the
sounds we listened for, and marked. We remembered
the gorse bushes, and knew that
the coveys would not be far from them.</p>
<p>We always considered partridge good game,
and sometimes were watching a dozen coveys<a name="Page_49" id="Page_49"></a>
at the same time. September once in, there
was never a sun-down that did not see one of
us on our rounds making mental notes. It
was not often, however, that more than three
coveys were marked for a night's work. One
of these, perhaps, would be in turnips, another
among stubble, and the third on grass. According
to the nature of the crop, the lay of
the land, wind, &c., so we varied our tactics.
Netting partridges always requires two persons,
though a third to walk after the net is helpful.
If the birds have been carefully marked down,
a narrow net is used; if their roosting-place is
uncertain a wider net is better. When all is
ready this is slowly dragged along the ground,
and is thrown down immediately the whirr of
wings is heard. If neatly and silently done,
the whole covey is bagged. There is a terrible
flutter, a cloud of brown feathers, and all is
over. It is not always, however, that the draw
is so successful. In view of preventing this
method of poaching, especially on land where
many partridges roost, keepers plant low
scrubby thorns at intervals. These so far<a name="Page_50" id="Page_50"></a>
interfere with the working of the net as to
allow the birds time to escape. We were
never much troubled, however, in this way.
As opportunity offered the quick-thorns were
torn up, and a dead black-thorn bough took
their place. As the thorns were low the difference
was never noticed, even by the keepers,
and, of course, they were carefully removed
before, and replaced after, netting. Even
when the dodge was detected the fields and
fallows had been pretty much stripped of the
birds. This method is impracticable now, as
the modern method of reaping leaves the
brittle stubble as bare as the squire's lawn.
We had always a great objection to use a
wide net where a narrow one would suit the
purpose. Among turnips, and where large
numbers of birds were supposed to lie, a
number of rows or "riggs" were taken at a
time, until the whole of the ground had been
traversed. This last method is one that requires
time and a knowledge of the keeper's
beat. On rough ground the catching of the
net may be obviated by having about eighteen<a name="Page_51" id="Page_51"></a>
inches of smooth glazed material bordering
the lowest and trailing part of it. Some of
the small farmers were as fond of poaching as
ourselves, and here is a trick which one of
them successfully employed whenever he heard
the birds in his land. He scattered a train of grain
from the field in which the partridge roosted,
each morning bringing it nearer and nearer to
the stack-yard. After a time the birds became
accustomed to this mode of feeding, and as
they grew bolder the grain-train was continued
inside the barn. When they saw the golden
feast invitingly spread, they were not slow to
enter, and the doors were quickly closed
upon them. Then the farmer entered with a
bright light and felled the birds with a stick.</p>
<p>In the dusk of a late autumn afternoon a
splendid "pot" shot was sometimes had at a
bunch of partridges just gathered for the night.
I remember a score such. The call of the
partridge is less deceptive than any other game
bird, and the movements of a covey are easily
watched. This tracking is greatly aided if the
field in which the birds are is bounded by<a name="Page_52" id="Page_52"></a>
stone walls. As dusk deepens and draws
to dark, they run and call less, and soon all is
still. The closely-packed covey is easy to
detect against the yellow stubble, and resting
the gun on the wall, a charge of heavy shot
fired into their midst usually picks off the lot.
If in five minutes the shot brings up the keeper
it matters little, as then you are far over the
land.</p>
<p>Partridges feed in the early morning—as
soon as day breaks, in fact. They resort to one
spot, and are constant in their coming, especially
if encouraged. This fact I well knew,
and laid my plans accordingly. By the aid of the
moon a train of grain was laid straight as a
hazel wand. Upon these occasions I never went
abroad without an old duck-gun, the barrels of
which had been filed down. This enabled me
to carry the gun-stock in one pocket, the
barrels in the other. The shortness of the
latter in nowise told against the shooting, as
the gun was only required to use at short
distances. The weapon was old, thick at
the muzzle, and into it I crammed a heavy<a name="Page_53" id="Page_53"></a>
charge of powder and shot. Ensconced in the
scrub I had only now to wait for the dawn.
Almost before it was fully light the covey
would come with a loud whirring of wings, and
settle to feed immediately. This was the
critical moment. Firing along the line a single
shot strewed the ground with dead and dying;
and in ten minutes, always keeping clear of the
roads, I was a mile from the spot.</p>
<p>I had yet another and a more successful
method of taking partridges. When, from the
watchfulness or cleverness of keepers (they are
not intelligent men as a rule), both netting and
shooting proved impracticable, I soaked grain
until it became swollen, and then steeped it in
the strongest spirit. This, as before, was
strewn in the morning paths of the partridge,
and, soon taking effect, the naturally pugnacious
birds were presently staggering and fighting
desperately. Then I bided my time, and as
opportunity offered, knocked the incapacitated
birds on the head.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/i013.png" border="0" alt="Dog with Lantern Hanging from Neck" title="" width="700" height="461"></div>
<p>One of the most ingenious and frequently
successful methods I employed for bagging<a name="Page_54" id="Page_54"></a>
partridge was by the aid of an old setter
bitch having a lantern tied to her neck.
Being somewhat risky, I only employed it
when other plans failed, and when I had a
good notion of the keeper's whereabouts.
The lantern was made from an old salmon
canister stripped of its sides, and contained a
bit of candle. When the bitch was put off
into seeds or stubble she would range quietly
until she found the birds, then stand as<a name="Page_55" id="Page_55"></a>
stiffly as though done in marble. This shewed
me just where the covey lay, and as the light
either dazzled or frightened the birds, it was not
difficult to clap the net over them. It sometimes
happened that others besides myself
were watching this strange luminous light, and
it was probably set down as some phenomenon
of the night-side of nature. Once, however,
I lost my long silk net, and as there was
everything to be gained by running, and much<a name="Page_56" id="Page_56"></a>
to be lost by staying, I ran desperately. Only
an old, slow dog can be used in this species of
poaching, and it is marvellous to see with
what spirit and seeming understanding it
enters into the work.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/i014.png" border="0" alt="Boy Running from Man" title="" width="700" height="607"></div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" class="newpg"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57"></a>
<a name="CHAPTER_5" id="CHAPTER_5"></a>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/i015.png" border="0" alt="Chapter 5." title="" width="700" height="310"></div>
<hr style="width: 20%;margin-top:.5em;margin-bottom:.06em;">
<hr style="width: 20%;margin-bottom:1em;margin-top:.06em;">
<h2 class="smcap">Hare Poaching.</h2>
<div class="poem" style="padding-top:1em;padding-bottom:1em;">
<span class="i0">The merry brown hares came leaping<br></span>
<span class="i2">Over the crest of the hill,<br></span>
<span class="i0">Where the clover and corn lay sleeping<br></span>
<span class="i2">Under the moonlight still.<br></span>
</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:0em;padding-top:0em;"><img src="images/spacer.png" border="0" alt="" title="" width="1" height="1"></div>
<div class="figparts1">
<img class="parts" src="images/i015_worda.png" width="153" height="47" alt="Our" title="">
</div>
<div class="figparts1">
<img class="parts" src="images/i015_wordb.png" width="70" height="56" alt="" title="">
</div>
<p style="text-indent: 0em;">hare season generally began with
partridge poaching, so that the coming
of the hunter's moon was always an interesting
autumnal event. By its aid the first
big bag of the season was made. When a
field is sown down, which it is intended to
bring back to grass, clover is invariably sown<a name="Page_58" id="Page_58"></a>
with the grain. This springs between the corn
stalks, and by the time the golden sheaves are
carried, has swathed the stubble with mantling
green. This, before all others, is the crop
which hares love.</p>
<p>Poaching is one of the fine arts, and the
man who would succeed must be a specialist. If
he has sufficient strength to refrain from general
"mouching," he will succeed best by selecting
one particular kind of game, and directing his
whole knowledge of woodcraft against it. In
spring and summer I was wont to closely scan
the fields, and as embrowned September drew
near, knew the whereabouts of every hare in
the parish—not only the field where it lay,
but the very clump of rushes in which was its
form. As puss went away from the gorse, or
raced down the turnip-rigg, I took in every
twist and double down to the minutest detail.</p>
<p>Then I scanned the "smoots" and gates
through which she passed, and was always
careful to approach these laterally. I left no
trace of hand nor print of foot, nor disturbed
the rough herbage. Late afternoon brought<a name="Page_59" id="Page_59"></a>
me home, and upon the hearth the wires and
nets were spread for inspection. When all
was ready, and the dogs whined impatiently to
be gone, I would strike right into the heart of
the land, and away from the high-road.</p>
<p>Mention of the dogs brings me to my fastest
friends. Without them poaching for fur would
be almost impossible. I invariably used
bitches, and as success depended almost
wholly upon them, I was bound to keep only
the best. Lurchers take long to train, but
when perfected are invaluable. I have had,
maybe, a dozen dogs in all, the best being the
result of a pure cross between greyhound
and sheepdog. In night work silence is essential
to success, and such dogs never bark;
they have the good nose of the one, and the
speed of the other. In selecting puppies it is
best to choose rough-coated ones, as they are
better able to stand the exposure of cold,
rough nights. Shades of brown and fawn are
preferable for colour, as these best assimilate
to the duns and browns of the fields and
woods. The process of training would take<a name="Page_60" id="Page_60"></a>
long to describe; but it is wonderful how soon
the dog takes on the habits of its master. They
soon learn to slink along by hedge and ditch,
and but rarely shew in the open. They know<a name="Page_61" id="Page_61"></a>
every field-cut and by-path for miles, and are
as much aware as their masters that county
constables have a nasty habit of loitering about
unfrequented lanes at daybreak.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/i016.png" border="0" alt="Woman Carrying Basket" title="" width="597" height="700"></div>
<p>The difficulty lies not so much in obtaining
game as in getting it home safely; but for all
that I was but rarely surprised with game
upon me in this way. Disused buildings,
stacks, and dry ditches are made to contain
the "haul" until it can be sent for—an office
which I usually got some of the field-women
to perform for me. Failing these, country
carriers and early morning milk-carts were
useful. When I was night poaching, it was
important that I should have the earliest intimation
of the approach of a possible enemy,
and to secure this the dogs were always trained
to run on a few hundred yards in advance.
A well-trained lurcher is almost infallible in
detecting a foe, and upon meeting one he runs
back to his master under cover of the <i>far side</i>
of a fence. When the dog came back to me in
this way I lost not a second in accepting the
shelter of the nearest hedge or deepest ditch<a name="Page_62" id="Page_62"></a>
till the danger was past. If suddenly surprised
and without means of hiding, myself and the
dog would make off in different directions.
Then there were times when it was inconvenient
that we should know each other, and upon
such occasions the dogs would not recognise
me even upon the strongest provocation.</p>
<p>My best lurchers knew as much of the habits of
game as I did. According to the class of land
to be worked they were aware whether hares,
partridges, or rabbits were to constitute the
game for the night. They judged to a nicety
the speed at which a hare should be driven to
make a snare effective, and acted accordingly.
At night the piercing scream of a netted hare
can be heard to a great distance, and no sound
sooner puts the keeper on the alert.</p>
<p>Consequently, when "puss" puts her neck
into a wire, or madly jumps into a gate-net,
the dog is on her in an instant, and quickly
stops her piteous squeal. In field-netting rabbits,
lurchers are equally quick, seeming quite
to appreciate the danger of noise. Once only
have I heard a lurcher give mouth. "Rough"<a name="Page_63" id="Page_63"></a>
was a powerful, deep-chested bitch, but upon
one occasion she failed to jump a stiff,
stone fence, with a nine-pound hare in her
mouth. She did not bark, however, until she
had several times failed at the fence, and when
she thought her whereabouts were unknown.
Hares and partridges invariably squat on the
fallow or in the stubble when alarmed, and remain
absolutely still till the danger is passed.
This act is much more likely to be observed
by the dog than its master, and in such cases
the lurchers gently rubbed my shins to apprise
me of the fact. Then I moved more cautiously.
Out-lying pheasants, rabbits in the
clumps, red grouse on the heather—the old
dog missed none of them. Every movement
was noted, and each came to the capacious
pocket in turn. The only serious fights I ever
had were when keepers threatened to shoot
the dogs. This was a serious matter. Lurchers
take long to train, and a keeper's summary
proceeding often stops a whole winter's work,
as the best dogs cannot easily be replaced.
Many a one of our craft would as soon have<a name="Page_64" id="Page_64"></a>
been shot himself as seen his dog destroyed;
and there are few good dogs which have not,
at one time or other, been riddled with pellets
during their lawless (save the mark!) career.
If a hare happens to be seen, the dog sometimes
works it so cleverly as to "chop" it in
its "form"; and both hares and rabbits are not
unfrequently snapped up without being run
at all. In fact, depredations in fur would be
exceedingly limited without the aid of dogs;
and one country squire saved his ground game
for a season by buying my best brace of lurchers
at a very fancy price; while upon another
occasion a bench of magistrates demanded to
see the dogs of whose doings they had heard
so much. In short, my lurchers at night embodied
all my senses.</p>
<p>Whilst preparing my nets and wires, the
dogs would whine impatiently to be gone.
Soon their ears were pricked out on the track,
though until told to leave they stuck doggedly
to heel. Soon the darkness would blot out
even the forms of surrounding objects, and our
movements were made more cautiously. A<a name="Page_65" id="Page_65"></a>
couple of snares are set in gaps in an old
thorn fence not more than a yard <a name="tn_png_68"></a><!--TN: Period added after "apart"-->apart. These
are delicately manipulated, as we know from
previous knowledge that the hare will take one
of them. The black dog is sent over, the
younger fawn bitch staying behind. The
former slinks slowly down the field, sticking
close to the cover of a fence running at right
angles to the one in which the wires are set.
I have arranged that the wind shall blow from
the dog and across to the hare's seat when the
former shall come opposite. The ruse acts;
"puss" is alarmed, but not terrified; she gets
up and goes quietly away for the hedge. The
dog is crouched, anxiously watching; she is
making right for the snare, though something
must be added to her speed to make the wire
effective. As the dog closes in, I wait, bowed,
with hands on knees, still as death, for her
coming. I hear the brush of the grass,
the trip, trip, trip, as the herbage is brushed.
There is a rustle among the dead leaves,
a desperate rush, a momentary squeal—and the
wire has tightened round her throat.<a name="Page_66" id="Page_66"></a></p>
<p>Again we trudge silently along the lane, but
soon stop to listen. Then we disperse, but to
any on-looker would seem to have dissolved.
This dry ditch is capacious, and its dead
herbage tall and tangled. A heavy foot, with
regular beat, approaches along the road, and
dies slowly away in the distance.</p>
<p>Hares love green cornstalks, and a field of
young wheat is at hand; I spread a net, twelve
feet by six, at the gate, and at a sign the dogs
depart different ways. Their paths soon converge,
for the night is torn by a piteous cry;
the road is enveloped in a cloud of dust; and
in the midst of the confusion the dogs dash
over the fence. They must have found their
game near the middle of the field, and driven
the hares—for there are two—so hard that
they carried the net right before them; every
struggle wraps another mesh about them, and,
in a moment, their screams are quieted. By a
quick movement I wrap the long net about my
arm, and, taking the noiseless sward, get
hastily away from the spot.<a name="Page_67" id="Page_67"></a></p>
<p>In March, when hares are pairing, four or
five may frequently be found together in one
field. Although wild, they seem to lose much
of their natural timidity, and during this month
I usually reaped a rich harvest. I was always
careful to set my wires and snares on the side
<i>opposite</i> to that from which the game would
come, for this reason—that hares approach
any place through which they are about
to pass in a zig-zag manner. They come on,
playing and frisking, stopping now and then to
nibble the herbage. Then they canter, making
wide leaps at right angles to their path, and sit
listening upon their haunches. A freshly impressed
footmark, the scent of dog or man,
almost invariably turns them back. Of course
these traces are certain to be left if the snare
be set on the <i>near</i> side of the gate or fence,
and then a hare will refuse to take it, even
when hard pressed. Now here is a wrinkle to
any keeper who cares to accept it. Where
poaching is prevalent and hares abundant,
<i>every hare on the estate should be netted</i>, for it
is a fact well known to every poacher versed<a name="Page_68" id="Page_68"></a>
in his craft, that an escaped hare that has
once been netted can never be retaken.
The process, however, will effectually frighten
a small percentage of hares off the land altogether.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/i017.png" border="0" alt="Man Driving Sheep through Gate" title="" width="700" height="470"></div>
<p>The human scent left at gaps and gateways
by ploughmen, shepherds, and mouchers, the
wary poacher will obliterate by driving sheep
over the spot before he begins operations. On
the sides of fells and uplands hares are difficult
to kill. This can only be accomplished by<a name="Page_69" id="Page_69"></a>
swift dogs, which are taken <i>above</i> the game.
Puss is made to run down-hill, when, from her
peculiar formation, she goes at a disadvantage.</p>
<p>Audacity almost invariably stands the poacher
in good stead. Here is an actual incident.
I knew of a certain field of young wheat in
which was several hares—a fact observed
during the <a name="tn_png_72"></a><!--TN: Period added after "day"-->day. This was hard by the keeper's
cottage, and surrounded by a high fence of
loose stones. It will be seen that the situation
was somewhat critical, but that night
my nets were set at the gates through which
the hares always made. To drive them the
dog was to range the field, entering it at a
point furthest away from the gate. I bent
my back in the road a yard from the wall
to aid the dog. It retired, took a mighty
spring, and barely touching my shoulders,
bounded over the fence. The risk was justified
by the haul, for that night I bagged nine
good hares.</p>
<p>Owing to the scarcity of game, hare-poaching
is now hardly worth following, and I
believe that what is known as the <i>Ground<a name="Page_70" id="Page_70"></a>
Game Act</i> is mainly responsible for this. A
country Justice, who has often been my friend
when I was sadly in need of one, asked me
why I thought the Hares and Rabbits Act
had made both kinds of fur scarcer. I told
him that the hare would become abundant
again if it were not beset by so many enemies.
Since 1880 it has had no protection, and
the numbers have gone down amazingly. A
shy and timid animal, it is worried through
every month of the year. It does not
burrow, and has not the protection of the
rabbit. Although the colour of its fur resembles
that of the dead grass and herbage
among which it lies, yet it starts from its
"form" at the approach of danger, and from
its size makes an easy mark. It is not unfrequently
"chopped" by sheep-dogs, and in
certain months hundreds of leverets perish in
this way. Hares are destroyed wholesale
during the mowing of the grass and the reaping
of the corn. For a time in summer, leverets
especially seek this kind of cover, and farmers
and farm-labourers kill numbers with dog and<a name="Page_71" id="Page_71"></a>
gun—and this at a time when they are quite unfit
for food. In addition to these causes of scarcity
there are others well known to sportsmen.
When harriers hunt late in the season—as they
invariably do now-a-days—many leverets are
"chopped," and for every hare that goes
away three are killed in the manner indicated.
At least, that is my experience
while mouching in the wake of the hounds.
When hunting continues through March,
master and huntsman assert that this havoc is
necessary in order to kill off superabundant
jack-hares, and so preserve the balance of
stock. Doubtless there was reason in this
argument before the present scarcity, but now
there is none. March, too, is a general
breeding month, and the hunting of doe-hares
entails the grossest cruelty. Coursing is
confined within no fixed limits, and is prolonged
far too late in the season. What has
been said of hunting applies to coursing, and
these things sportsmen can remedy if they
wish. There is more unwritten law in connection
with British field-sports than any other<a name="Page_72" id="Page_72"></a>
pastime; but obviously it might be added to
with advantage. If something is not done the
hare will assuredly become extinct. To prevent
this a "close time" is, in the opinion
of those best versed in woodcraft, absolutely
necessary. The dates between which the
hare would best be protected are the first
of March and the first of August. Then we
would gain all round. The recent relaxation
of the law has done something to encourage
poaching, and poachers now find pretexts for
being on or about land which before were of
no avail, and to the moucher accurate observation
by day is one of the essentials to
success.</p>
<p>Naturalists ought to know best; but there has
been more unnatural history written concerning
hares than any other British animal. It is said
to produce two young ones at a birth, but observant
poachers know that from three to five
leverets are not unfrequently found: then it is
stated that hares breed twice, or at most thrice,
a year. Anyone, however, who has daily observed
their habits, knows that there are but<a name="Page_73" id="Page_73"></a>
few months in which leverets are not born.
In mild winters young ones are found in
January and February, whilst in March they
have become common. They may be seen
right on through summer and autumn, and last
December I saw a brace of leverets a month old.
Does shot in October are sometimes found to
be giving milk, and in November old hares are
not unfrequently noticed in the same patch of
cover. These facts would seem to point to
the conclusion that the hare propagates its
species almost the whole year round—a startling
piece of evidence to the older naturalists. Add
to this that hares pair when a year old, that
gestation lasts only thirty days, and it will be
seen what a possibly prolific animal the hare
may be. The young are born covered with
fur, and after a month leave their mother to
seek their own subsistence.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" class="newpg"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74"></a>
<a name="CHAPTER_6" id="CHAPTER_6"></a>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/i018.png" border="0" alt="Chapter 6." title="" width="700" height="360"></div>
<hr style="width: 20%;margin-top:.5em;margin-bottom:.06em;">
<hr style="width: 20%;margin-bottom:1em;margin-top:.06em;">
<h2 class="smcap">Pheasant Poaching.</h2>
<div class="figparts1">
<img class="parts" src="images/i018_worda.png" width="248" height="49" alt="Through" title="">
</div>
<div class="figparts1">
<img class="parts" src="images/i018_wordb.png" width="79" height="31" alt="" title="">
</div>
<div class="figparts1">
<img class="parts" src="images/i018_wordc.png" width="138" height="23" alt="" title="">
</div>
<p style="text-indent: 0em;">late summer and autumn the
poacher's thoughts go out to the
early weeks of October. Neither
the last load of ruddy corn, nor the actual
netting of the partridge gladden his heart as
do the first signs of the dying year. There are
certain sections of the Game Laws which he
never breaks, and only some rare circumstance
tempts him to take immature birds. But by the
third week of October the yellow and sere of<a name="Page_75" id="Page_75"></a>
the year has come. The duns and browns are
over the woods, and the leaves come fitfully
flickering down. Everything out of doors
testifies that autumn is waning, and that winter
will soon be upon us. The colours of the few
remaining flowers are fading, and nature is beginning
to have a washed-out appearance. The
feathery plumes of the ash are everywhere
strewn beneath the trees, for, just as the ash is
the first to burst into leaf, so it is the first to
go. The foliage of the oak is already assuming
a bright chestnut, though the leaves
will remain throughout the year. In the oak
avenues the acorns are lying in great quantities,
though oak mast is not now the important
product it once was, cheap grain having
relegated it almost exclusively to the use of
the birds. And now immense flocks of wood
pigeons flutter in the trees or pick up the food
from beneath. The garnering of the grain, the
flocking of migratory birds, the wild clanging
of fowl in the night sky—these are the sights
and sounds that set the poacher's thoughts off
in the old grooves.<a name="Page_76" id="Page_76"></a></p>
<div class="figright" style="padding-bottom:.3em;padding-top:.3em;"><img src="images/i019.png" border="0" alt="Two Men Fighting" title="" width="600" height="400"></div>
<p>Of all species of poaching, that which ensures
a good haul of pheasants is most beset
with difficulty. Nevertheless there are silent
ways and means which prove as successful in the
end as the squire's guns, and these without breaking
the woodland silence with a sound. The
most successful of these I intend to set down,
and only such will be mentioned as have stood
me in good stead in actual night work. Among
southern woods and coverts the pheasant
poacher is usually a desperate character; not
so in the north. Here
the poachers are
more skilled in
woodcraft, and
are rarely surprised.
If the
worst comes
to the
worst
it is a
fair
stand-up fight with fists, and is usually bloodless.
There is little greed of gain in the night<a name="Page_77" id="Page_77"></a>
enterprise, and liberty by flight is the first
thing resorted to.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="padding-bottom:.3em;padding-top:.3em;"><img src="images/i020.png" border="0" alt="Man Sprinkling Corn on the Ground" title="" width="480" height="700"></div>
<p>It is well for the poacher, and well for his
methods, that the pheasant is rather a stupid
bird. There is no gainsaying its beauty, however,
and a brace of birds, with all the old
excitement thrown in, are well worth winning,
even at considerable risk. In a long life of
poaching I have noticed that the pheasant has
one great characteristic. It is fond of wandering;
and this cannot be prevented. Watch
the birds: even when fed daily, and with the
daintiest food, they wander off, singly or in
pairs, far from the home coverts. This fact I
knew well, and was not slow to use my
knowledge. When October came round they
were the very first birds to which I directed
my attention. Every poacher observes, year
by year (even leaving his own predaceous paws
out of the question), that it by no means follows
that the man who rears the pheasants will
have the privilege of shooting them. There is
a very certain time in the life of the bird
when it disdains the scattered corn of the<a name="Page_78" id="Page_78"></a>
keeper, and begins to anticipate the fall of
beech and oak mast. In search of this the
pheasants make daily journeys, and consume
great quantities. They feed principally in the
morning; dust themselves in the roads or
turnip-fields at mid-day, and ramble through the
woods in the afternoon. And one thing is
certain: That when wandered birds find
themselves in outlying copses in the evening
they are apt to roost there. As already
stated, these were the birds to which I paid
my best attention. When wholesale pheasant
poaching is prosecuted by gangs, it is in
winter, when the trees are bare. Guns, with
the barrels filed down, are taken in sacks,
and the pheasants are shot where they
roost. Their bulky forms stand sharply outlined
against the sky, and they are invariably
on the lower branches. If the firing does not
immediately bring up the keepers, the game
is quickly deposited in bags, and the gang
makes off. And it is generally arranged that
a light cart is waiting at some remote lane
end, so that possible pursuers may be quickly<a name="Page_79" id="Page_79"></a>
outpaced. The great risk incurred by this
method will be seen, when it is stated that
pheasants are generally reared close by the
keeper's cottage, and that their coverts immediately
surround it. It is mostly armed mouchers
who enter these, and not the
more gifted (save the mark!)
country poacher. And there
are reasons for this. Opposition
must always be anticipated,
for, speaking
for the nonce from the
game-keeper's standpoint,
the covert never
should be, and rarely
is, unwatched. Then
there are the certain results
of possible capture to
be taken into account. This
affected, and with birds in one's
possession, the poacher is liable
to be indicted upon so many concurrent charges,
each and all having heavy penalties. Than this
I obtained my game in a different and quieter<a name="Page_80" id="Page_80"></a>
way. My custom was to carefully eschew the
preserves, and look up all outlying birds. I never
went abroad without a pocketful of corn, and
day by day enticed the wandered birds further
and further away. This accomplished, pheasants
may be snared with hair nooses, or taken in
spring traps. One of my commonest and most
successful methods with wandered birds was to
light brimstone beneath the trees in which they
roosted. The powerful fumes soon overpowered
them, and they came flopping down the trees
one by one. This method has the advantage
of silence, and if the night be dead and still,
is rarely detected. Away from the preserves,
time was never taken into account in my
plans, and I could work systematically. I was
content with a brace of birds at a time, and
usually got most in the end, with least chance
of capture.</p>
<p>I have already spoken at some length of my
education in field and wood-craft. An important
(though at the time unconscious)
part of this was minute observation of the
haunts and habits of all kinds of game; and<a name="Page_81" id="Page_81"></a>
this knowledge was put to good use in my
actual poaching raids. Here is an instance of
what I mean: I had noticed the great pugnacity
of the pheasant, and out of this made
capital. After first finding out the whereabouts
of the keeper, I fitted a trained
game-cock with artificial spurs, and then took
it to the covert side. The artificial spurs were
fitted to the natural ones, were sharp as
needles, and the plucky bird already knew
how to use them. Upon his crowing, one
or more cock pheasants would immediately
respond, and advance to meet the adversary.
A single blow usually sufficed to lay low the
pride of the pheasant, and in this way half-a-dozen
birds were bagged, whilst my own
representative remained unhurt.</p>
<p>I had another ingenious plan (if I may say
so) in connection with pheasants, and, perhaps,
the most successful. I may say at once that
there is nothing sportsmanlike about it; but
then that is in keeping with most of what I
have set down. If time and opportunity offer
there is hardly any limit to the depredation<a name="Page_82" id="Page_82"></a>
which it allows. Here it is: A number of
dried peas are taken and steeped in boiling
water; a hole is then made through the centre,
and through this again a stiff bristle is threaded.
The ends are then cut off short, leaving only
about a quarter of an inch of bristle projecting
on each side. With these the birds are fed,
and they are greedily eaten. In passing down
the gullet, however, a violent irritation is
set up, and the pheasant is finally choked.
In a dying condition the birds are picked up
beneath the hedges, to the shelter of which
they almost always run. The way is a quiet
one; it may be adopted in roads and lanes
where the birds dust themselves, and does
not require trespass.</p>
<p>In this connection I may say that I only
used a gun when every other method
failed. Game-keepers sometimes try to outwit
poachers by a device which is now of old
standing. Usually knowing from what quarter
the latter will enter the covert, wooden
blocks representing roosting birds are nailed
to the branches of the open beeches. I was<a name="Page_83" id="Page_83"></a>
never entrapped into firing at these dummies,
and it is only with the casual that the ruse
acts. He fires, brings the keepers from
their hiding places, and is caught. Still another
method of bagging "long-tails," though
one somewhat similar to that already set
down: It requires two persons, and the exact
position of the birds must be known. A black
night is necessary; a stiff bamboo rod, and a
dark lantern. One man flashes the concentrated
light upon the bare branches, when
immediately half a dozen necks are stretched
out to view the apparition. Just then the
"angler" slips a wire nooze over the craned
neck nearest him, and it is jerked down as
quickly, though as silently as possible. Number
two is served in like manner, then a third,
a fourth, and a fifth. This method has the
advantage of silence, though, if unskilfully
managed, sometimes only a single bird is
secured, and the rest flutter wildly off into
the darkness.</p>
<p>Poachers often come to untimely ends.
Here is an actual incident which befell one<a name="Page_84" id="Page_84"></a>
of my companions—as clever a poacher, and
as decent and quiet a man as need be. I saw
him on the night previous to the morning of
his death, though he did not see me. It was
a night at the end of October. The winds
had stripped the leaves from the trees, and
the dripping branches stood starkly against the
sky. I was on the high road with a vehicle,
when plashes of rain began to descend, and a
low muttering came from out the dull leaden
clouds. As the darkness increased, occasional
flashes tore zig-zag across the sky, and the rain
set to a dead pour. The lightning only served
to increase the darkness. I could just see the
mare's steaming shoulders butting away in
front, and her sensitive ears alternately pricked
out on the track. The pitchy darkness increased,
I gave the mare her head, and let the
reins hang loosely on her neck. The lightning
was terrible, the thunder almost continuous,
when the mare came to a dead stop. I got
down from the trap and found her trembling
violently, with perspiration pouring down
her flanks. All her gear was white with<a name="Page_87" id="Page_87"></a><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86"></a><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85"></a>
lather, and I thought it best to lead her on
to where I knew was a chestnut tree, and
there wait for a lull in the storm. As I stood
waiting, a black lurcher slunk along under the
sodden hedge, and seeing the trap, immediately
stopped and turned in its tracks. Having warned
its master, the two reconnoitered and then
came on together. The "Otter" (for it was
he), bade a gruff "good-night" to the enshrouded
vehicle and passed on into the
darkness. He slouched rapidly under the
rain, and went in the direction of extensive
woods and coverts. Hundreds of pheasants
had taken to the tall trees, and, from beneath,
were visible against the sky. Hares abounded
on the fallows, and rabbits swarmed everywhere.
The storm had driven the keepers to
their cosy hearths, and the prospect was a
poacher's paradise. Just what occurred next
can only be surmised. Doubtless the "Otter"
worked long and earnestly through that terrible
night, and at dawn staggered from the ground
under a heavy load.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/i021.png" border="0" alt="Trap and Driver at Night" title="" width="700" height="567"></div>
<p><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88"></a></p>
<p>Just at dawn the poacher's wife emerged
from a poor cottage at the junction of the
roads, and after looking about her as a hunted
animal might look, made quietly off over the
land. Creeping closely by the fences she
covered a couple of miles, and then entered a
disused, barn-like building. Soon she emerged
under a heavy load, her basket, as of old,
covered with crisp, green cresses. These she
had kept from last evening, when she plucked
them in readiness, from the spring. After two or
three journeys she had removed the "plant,"
and as she eyed the game her eyes glistened,
and she waited now only for <i>him</i>. As yet she
knew not that he would never more come—that
soon she would be a lone and heart-broken
creature. For, although his life was one long
warfare against the Game Laws, he had always
been good and kind to her. His end had
come as it almost inevitably must. The sound
of a heavy unknown footstep on his way home,
had turned him from his path. He had then
made back for the lime-kiln to obtain warmth
and to dry his sodden clothes. Once on the<a name="Page_89" id="Page_89"></a>
margin he was soon asleep. The fumes dulled
his senses, and in his restless sleep he had
rolled on to the stones. In the morning the
Limestone Burner coming to work found a
handful of pure white ashes. A few articles
were scattered about, and he guessed the rest.</p>
<p>And so the "Otter" went to God.... The
storm cleared, and the heavens were calm. In
the sky, on the air, in the blades of grass were
signs of awakening life. Morning came bright
and fair, birds flew hither and thither, and the
autumn flowers stood out to the sun. All
things were glad and free, but one wretched
stricken thing.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" class="newpg"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90"></a>
<a name="CHAPTER_7" id="CHAPTER_7"></a>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/i022.png" border="0" alt="Chapter 7." title="" width="700" height="408"></div>
<hr style="width: 20%;margin-top:.5em;margin-bottom:.06em;">
<hr style="width: 20%;margin-bottom:1em;margin-top:.06em;">
<h2 class="smcap">Salmon and Trout Poaching.</h2>
<div class="poem" style="margin-top:1em;margin-bottom:1em;">
<span class="i0">Flashes the blood-red gleam<br></span>
<span class="i1">Over the midnight slaughter;<br></span>
<span class="i0">Wild shadows haunt the stream;<br></span>
<span class="i1">Dark forms glance o'er the water.<br></span>
<span class="i0">It is the leisterers' cry!<br></span>
<span class="i1">A salmon, ho! oho!<br></span>
<span class="i0">In scales of light, the creature bright<br></span>
<span class="i1">Is glimmering below.<br></span>
</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:0em;padding-top:0em;"><img src="images/spacer.png" border="0" alt="" title="" width="1" height="1"></div>
<div class="figparts1">
<img class="parts" src="images/i022_worda.png" width="205" height="44" alt="Most" title="">
</div>
<div class="figparts1">
<img class="parts" src="images/i022_wordb.png" width="138" height="36" alt="" title="">
</div>
<div class="figparts1">
<img class="parts" src="images/i022_wordc.png" width="179" height="24" alt="" title="">
</div>
<p style="text-indent: 0em;">country poachers begin by loving
Nature and end by hating the Game
Laws. Whilst many a man is
willing to recognize "property" in hares and<a name="Page_91" id="Page_91"></a>
pheasants, there are few who will do so with
regard to salmon and trout. And this is why fish
poachers have always swarmed. A sea-salmon
is in the domain of the whole world
one day; in a trickling runner among the hills
the next. Yesterday it belonged to anybody;
and the poacher, rightly or wrongly, thinks it
belongs to him if only he can snatch it. There
are few fish poachers
who in their time
have not been anglers;
and anglers are of two
kinds: there are those
who fish fair, and those
who fish foul. The
first set
are philosophical
and
cultivate
patience:
the second
are
preda<a name="Page_92" id="Page_92"></a>tory
and catch fish, fairly if they can—but
they catch fish.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="padding-bottom:.3em;padding-top:.3em;"><img src="images/i023.png" border="0" alt="Boy Fishing" title="" width="586" height="600"></div>
<p>Just as redwings and field-fares constitute
the first game of young gunners, so the loach,
the minnow, and the stickleback, are the prey
of the young poacher. If these things are
small, they are by no means to be despised,
for there is a tide in the affairs of men when
these "small fry" of the waters afford as
much sport on their pebbly shallows as do the
silvery-sided salmon in the pools of Strathspay.
As yet there is no knowledge of gaff or click
hook—only of a willow wand, a bit of string,
and a <a name="tn_png_95"></a><!--TN: "croocked" changed to "crooked"-->crooked pin. The average country
urchin has always a considerable dash of the
savage in his composition, and this first comes
out in relation to fish rather than fowl. See
him during summer as he wantons in the stream
like a dace. Watch where his brown legs
carry him; observe his stealthy movements as
he raises the likely stones; and note the primitive
poaching weapon in his hand. That old
pronged fork is every whit as formidable to the
loach and bullhead as is the lister of the man-<a name="Page_93" id="Page_93"></a>poacher
to salmon and trout—and the wader
uses it almost as skillfully. He has a bottle on
the bank, and into this he pours the fish unhurt
which he captures with his hands. Examine his
aquarium, and hidden among the weeds you
will find three or four species of small fry.
The loach, the minnow, and the bullhead are
sure to be there, with perhaps a tiny stickleback,
and somewhere, outside the bottle—stuffed
in cap or breeches pocket—crayfish of
every age and size. During a long life I have
watched the process, and this is the stuff out
of which fish-poachers are made.</p>
<p>It is part of the wisdom of nature's economy
that when furred and feathered game is "out,"
fish are "in." It might be thought that
poachers would recognize neither times nor
seasons, but this is a mistake. During fence
time game is nearly worthless; and then the
prospective penalties of poaching out of season
have to be taken into account. Fish poaching
is practised none the less for the high preservation
and strict watching which so much prevails
now-a-days; it seems even to have grown<a name="Page_94" id="Page_94"></a>
with them. In outlying country towns with
salmon and trout streams in the vicinity,
poaching is carried on to an almost incredible
extent. There are men who live by it and
women to whom it constitutes a thriving trade.
The "Otter," more thrifty than the rest of us,
has purchased a cottage with the proceeds of
his poaching; and I know four or five families
who live by it. Whilst our class provide the
chief business of the country police courts, and
is a great source of profit to the local fish and
game dealer, there is quite another and a
pleasanter side, to the picture. But this later.
The wary poacher never starts for the fishing
ground without having first his customer; and
it is surprising with what lax code of morals
the provincial public will deal, when the silent
night worker is one to the bargain. Of course
the public always gets cheap fish and fresh fish,
so fresh indeed that sometimes the life has
hardly gone out of it. It is a perfectly easy
matter to provide fish and the only difficulty lies
in conveying it into the towns and villages. I
never knew but what I might be met by some<a name="Page_95" id="Page_95"></a>
county constable, and consequently never
carried game upon me. This I secreted in
stack, rick, or disused farm building, until
such time as it could be safely fetched. Country
carriers, early morning milk-carts, and women
are all employed in getting the hauls into town.
In this women are by far the most successful.
Sometimes they are seen labouring under a
heavy load carried in a sack, with faggots and
rotten sticks protruding from the mouth; or
again, with a large basket innocently covered
with crisp, green cresses which effectually hide
the bright silvery fish beneath. Our methods
of fish poaching are many. As we work
silently and in the night, the chances of success
are all in our favour. We walk much by the
stream side during the day, and take mental
notes of men and fish. We know the beats
of the watchers, and have the water-side by
heart. Long use has accustomed us to work
as well in the dark as in the light, and
this is essential. During summer, when the
water is low, the fish congregate in deep
"dubs." This they do for protection, and<a name="Page_96" id="Page_96"></a>
here, if overhung by trees, there is always
abundance of food. Whenever it was our
intention to net a dub, we carefully examined
every inch of its bottom beforehand. If it had
been "thorned," every thorn was carefully
removed—small thorn bushes with stones
attached, and thrown in by the watchers to
entangle nets. Of course fish-poaching can
never be tackled single-handed. In "long-netting"
the net is dragged by a man on each
side, a third wading after to lift it over the
stakes, and to prevent the fish from escaping.
When the end of the pool is reached the
salmon and trout are simply drawn out upon
the pebbles. This is repeated through the
night until half-a-dozen pools are netted—probably
depopulated of their fish. Netting
of this description is a wholesale method of
capture, always supposing that we are allowed
our own time. It requires to be done slowly,
however, as if alarmed we can do nothing but
abandon the net. This is necessarily large,
and when thoroughly wet is cumbersome
and exceedingly heavy. The loss of one of<a name="Page_99" id="Page_99"></a><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98"></a><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97"></a>
our large nets was a serious matter, not only in
time but money. For narrow streams, a narrow
net is used, this being attached to two poles.
It is better to cut the poles (of ash) only when
required, as they are awkward objects to carry.
The method of working the "pod-net" is the
same in principle as the last. The older fish
poachers rarely go in for poisoning. This is a
cowardly method, and kills everything, both
great and small, for miles down stream.
Chloride of lime is the agent mostly used, as
it does not injure the edible parts. The lime
is thrown into the river where fish are known
to lie, and its deadly influence is soon seen.
The fish, weakened and poisoned, float belly
uppermost. This at once renders them conspicuous,
and they are simply lifted out of the
water in a landing-net. Salmon and trout
which come by their death in this way have the
usually pink parts of a dull white, with the
eyes and gill-covers of the same colour, and
covered with a fine white film. This substance
is much used in mills on the banks of trout-streams,
and probably more fish are "poached"<a name="Page_100" id="Page_100"></a>
by this kind of pollution in a month than the
most inveterate moucher will kill in a year.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/i024.png" border="0" alt="Longnetting" title="" width="700" height="459"></div>
<p>It is only poachers of the old school that
are careful to observe close times, and they do
their work mostly in summer. Many of the
younger and more desperate hands, however,
do really serious business when the fish are out
of season. When salmon and trout are spawning
their senses seem to become dulled, and then
they are not difficult to approach in the water.
They seek the highest reaches to spawn and stay
for a considerable time on the spawning beds.
A salmon offers a fair mark, and these are obtained
by spearing. The pronged salmon spear
is driven into the fleshy shoulders of the fish,
when it is hauled out on to the bank. In this
way I have often killed more fish in a single day
than I could possibly carry home—even when
there was little or no chance of detection.
There is only one practicable way of carrying
a big salmon across country on a dark night,
and that is by hanging it round one's neck and
steadying it in front. I have left tons of fish
behind when chased by the watchers, as of all<a name="Page_103" id="Page_103"></a><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102"></a><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101"></a>
things they are the most difficult to carry. The
best water bailiffs are those who are least seen,
or who watch from a distance. So as to save
sudden surprise, and to give timely warning
of the approach of watchers, one of the
poaching party should always command the
land from a tree top.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/i025.png" border="0" alt="Man Spearing a Salmon" title="" width="700" height="514"></div>
<p>The flesh of spawning fish is loose and watery,
insipid and tasteless, and rarely brings more
than a few pence per pound. In an out-lying
hamlet known to me, poached salmon, during
last close time, was so common that the cottagers
fed their poultry upon it through the winter.
Several fish were killed each over 20 lbs. in
weight. Than netting, another way of securing
salmon and trout from the spawning redds is by
"click" hooks. These are simply large salmon
hooks bound shaft to shaft and attached to a
long cord; a bit of lead balances them and
adds weight. These are used in the "dubs"
when spearing by wading is impracticable.
When a salmon is seen the hooks are simply
thrown beyond it, then gently dragged until
they come immediately beneath; when a<a name="Page_104" id="Page_104"></a>
sharp click sends them into the soft under
parts of the fish, which is then dragged out.
As the pike, which is one of nature's poachers,
is injurious to our interests as well as those of
the angler, we never miss an opportunity of
treating him in the same summary manner.
Of course, poaching with click-hooks requires
to be done during the day, or by the aid of an
artificial light. Light attracts salmon just as it
attracts birds, and tar brands are frequently
used by poachers. A good, rough bulls-eye
lantern, to aid in spearing, can be made
from a disused salmon canister. A circular
hole should be made in the side, and a bit of
material tied over to hide the light when not in
use. Shooting is sometimes resorted to, but
for this class of poaching the habits and beats
of the water bailiffs require to be accurately
known. The method has the advantage of
quickness, and a gun in skilful hands and at
short distance may be used without injuring
the fleshy parts of the fish. That deadly bait,
salmon row, is now rarely used, the method of
preparing it being unknown to the younger<a name="Page_105" id="Page_105"></a>
generation. It can, however, be used with
deadly effect. Although both ourselves and
our nets were occasionally captured, the
watchers generally found this a difficult matter.
In approaching our fishing grounds we did
not mind going sinuously and snake-like
through the wet meadows, and as I have said,
our nets were rarely kept at home. These
were secreted in stone heaps, and among bushes
in close proximity to where we intended to use
them. Were they kept at home the obtaining
of a search warrant by the police or local<a name="Page_106" id="Page_106"></a>
Angling Association would always render their
custody a critical business. When, upon any
rare occasion, the nets were kept at home, it was
only for a short period, and when about to be
used. Sometimes, though rarely, the police
have discovered them secreted in the chimney,
between bed and mattrass, or, in one case,
wound about the portly person of a poacher's
wife. As I have already said, the women are
not always simply aiders and abettors, but
in the actual poaching sometimes play an
important part. They have frequently been
taken red-handed by the watchers. Mention of
the water-bailiffs reminds me that I must say a
word of them too. Their profession is a hard
one—harder by far than the poacher's. They
work at night, and require to be most on the
alert during rough and wet weather; especially
in winter when fish are spawning. Sometimes
they must remain still for hours in
freezing clothes; and even in summer not
unfrequently lie all night in dank and wet
herbage. They see the night side of nature,
and many of them are as good naturalists as<a name="Page_107" id="Page_107"></a>
the poachers. If a lapwing gets up and
screams in the darkness the cleverer of them
know how to interpret the sound, as also a
hare rushing wildly past. I must add, however,
that it is in the nature of things that at all points
the fish poacher is cleverer and of readier wit
than the river watcher.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/i026.png" border="0" alt=""Going sinuously and snake-like
through the wet meadows"" title="" width="700" height="393"></div>
<div class="figright" style="padding-bottom:.3em;padding-top:.3em;"><img src="images/i027.png" border="0" alt="Poacher Presenting Salmon to Constable" title="" width="615" height="700"></div>
<p>Looking back it does
not seem long
since county
constables first
became an institution
in this part
of the country.
I remember an
amusing incident
connected with
one of them who
was evidently a
stranger to many
of the phases of
woodcraft. We
had been netting a deep dub just below a stone
bridge, and were about to land a splendid haul.<a name="Page_108" id="Page_108"></a>
Looking up, a constable was watching our
operations in an interested sort of way, and for
a moment we thought we were fairly caught.
Just as we were about to abandon the net and
make off through the wood, the man spoke.
In an instant I saw how matters stood. He
failed to grasp the situation—even came down
and helped us to draw the net on to the bank.
In thanking us for a silvery five-pound salmon
we gave him he spoke with a southern
accent, and I suppose that poachers and
poaching were subjects that had never entered
into his philosophy.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" class="newpg"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109"></a>
<a name="CHAPTER_8" id="CHAPTER_8"></a>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/i028.png" border="0" alt="Chapter 8." title="" width="700" height="318"></div>
<hr style="width: 20%;margin-top:.5em;margin-bottom:.06em;">
<hr style="width: 20%;margin-bottom:1em;margin-top:.06em;">
<h2 class="smcap">Grouse Poaching.</h2>
<div class="figparts1">
<img class="parts" src="images/i028_worda.png" width="153" height="58" alt="For" title="">
</div>
<div class="figparts1">
<img class="parts" src="images/i028_wordb.png" width="84" height="45" alt="" title="">
</div>
<p style="text-indent: 0em;">pleasurable excitement, to say nothing
of profit, the pick of all poaching
is for grouse. However fascinating
partridge poaching may be; however pleasurable
picking off pheasants from bare boughs;
or the night-piercing screams of a netted hare—none
of these can compare with the wild
work of the moors. I am abroad on the heather
just before the coming of the day. My way lies
now along the rugged course of a fell "beck,"<a name="Page_110" id="Page_110"></a>
now along the lower shoulder of the mountain.
The grey dissolves into dawn, the dawn into
light, and the first blackcock crows to his grey
hen in the hollow. As my head appears above
the burn side, the ever-watchful curlews whistle
and the plovers scream. A dotterel goes
plaintively piping over the stones, and the
"cheep, cheep," of the awakening ling-birds
rises from every brae. A silent tarn lies shimmering
in a green hollow beneath, and over its
marge constantly flit a pair of summer snipe.
The bellowing of red deer comes from a
neighbouring corrie, and a herd of roe are
browsing on the confines of the scrub. The
sun mounts the Eastern air, drives the mists
away and beyond the lichen patches loved by
the ptarmigan—and it is day.</p>
<p>A glorious bird is the red grouse! Listen
to his warning "kok, kok, kok," as he eyes the
invader of his moorland haunts. Now that it
is day his mate joins him on the "knowe."
The sun warms up his rufus plumage, and the
crescent-shaped patch of vermilion over the
eye glows in the strong light. It is these<a name="Page_111" id="Page_111"></a>
sights and sounds that warm me to my work,
and dearly I love the moor-game. Years ago
I had sown grain along the fell-side so as to
entice the grouse within range of an old flint-lock
which I used with deadly effect from
behind a stone wall. Then snares were set on
the barley sheaves and corn stooks, by which a
brace of birds were occasionally bagged. In
after years an unforseen grouse harvest came
in quite an unexpected manner. With the
enclosure of the Commons hundreds of miles of
wire fencing was erected, and in this way,
before the birds had become accustomed to it,
numbers were killed by flying against the<a name="Page_112" id="Page_112"></a>
fences. The casualties mostly occurred during
"thick" weather, or when the mists had
clung to the hills for days. At such times
grouse fly low, and strike before seeing the
obstacle. I never failed to note the mist-caps
hanging to the fell-tops, and then, bag in
hand, walked parallel to miles and miles of
flimsy fence. Sometimes a dozen brace of
birds were picked up in a morning; and, on the
lower grounds, an occasional partridge, woodcock,
or snipe.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/i029.png" border="0" alt="Poacher with Grouse by Wire Fence" title="" width="700" height="403"></div>
<p>Grouse are the only game that ever tempted
me to poach during close time, and then I only
erred by a few days. Birds sold in London on
the morning of the "Twelfth" bring the biggest
prices of the season, and to supply the
demand was a temptation I could never resist.
Many a "Squire," many a Country Justice
has been tempted as I was, and fell as I fell.
It is not too much to say that every one of the
three thousand birds sold in London on the
opening day has been poached during the
"fence" time. In the north, country station-masters
find hampers dropped on their plat<a name="Page_113" id="Page_113"></a>forms
addressed to London dealers, but, as to
who brought them, or how they came there,
none ever knows.</p>
<p>The only true prophet of the grouse-moors
is the poacher. Months before the "squire"
and keeper he knows whether disease will
assert itself or no. By reason of his out-door
life he has accuracy of eye and judgment sufficient
to interpret what he sees aright. He is
abroad in all weathers, and through every
hour of the day and night. His clothes have
taken on them the duns and browns of
the moorlands; and he owns the subtle influence
which attracts wild creatures to
him. He has watched grouse "at home"
since the beginning of the year. On the first
spring day the sun shines brightly at noon.
The birds bask on the brae, and spread their
wings to the warmth. As the sun gains in
power, and spring comes slowly up the way,
the red grouse give out gurgling notes, and
indulge in much strutting. The fell "becks"
sparkles in the sun; the merlin screams over
the heather, and the grouse packs break up.<a name="Page_114" id="Page_114"></a>
The birds are now seen singly or in pairs, and
brae answers brae from dawn till dark. The
cock grouse takes his stand on some grey rock,
and erects or depresses at pleasure his vermilion
eye-streak. Pairing is not long continued,
and the two find out a depression in
the heather which they line with bents and
mountain grasses. About eight eggs are laid,
and the cock grouse takes his stand upon the
"knowe" to guard the nest from predaceous
carrion and hooded crows. If hatching is
successful the young birds are quickly on their
legs, and through spring and summer follow
the brooding birds. They grow larger and
plumper each day, until it is <a name="tn_png_117"></a><!--TN: "difficut" changed to "difficult"-->difficult to detect
them from the adult. Meanwhile August has
come, and soon devastating death is dealt out
to them. The sport, so far as the poacher is
concerned, begins at the first rolling away of
the morning mists; and then he often makes
the best bag of the year. It was rarely that I
was abroad later than two in the morning, and
my first business was to wade out thigh-deep
into the purple heather. From such a position<a name="Page_115" id="Page_115"></a>
it is not difficult to locate the crowing of the
moorbirds as they answer each other across the
heather. When this was done I would gain
a rough stone wall, and then, by imitating the
gurgling call-notes of cock or hen I could
bring up every grouse within hearing. Sometimes
a dozen would be about me at one time.
Then the birds were picked off as they flew
over the knolls and braes, or as they boldly
stood on any eminence near. If this method
is deadly in early August, it is infinitely more
so during pairing time. Then, if time and
leisure be allowed, and the poacher is a
good "caller," almost every bird on a moor
may be bagged.</p>
<p>The greatest number of grouse, and consequently
the best poaching, is to be had on
moors on which the heather is regularly burned.
Grouse love the shoots of ling which spring up
after burning, and the birds which feed upon this
invariably have the brightest plumage. On a
well-burnt moor the best poaching method is
by using a silk net. By watching for traces
during the day it is not difficult to detect<a name="Page_116" id="Page_116"></a>
where the birds roost, and once this is discovered
the rest is easy. The net is trailed
along the ground by two men, and dropped instantly
on the whirr of wings. The springing
of the birds is the only guide in the darkness,
though the method skilfully carried out is most
destructive, and sometimes a whole covey <a name="tn_png_119"></a><!--TN: "is is" changed to "is"-->is
bagged at one sweep. Silk nets have three
good qualities for night work, those made of
any other material being cumbersome and
nearly useless. They are light, strong, and
are easily carried. It is well to have about
eighteen inches of glazed material along the
bottom of the net, or it is apt to catch in
dragging. Where poaching is practised, keepers
often place in the likeliest places a number of
strong stakes armed with protruding nails.
These, however, may be removed and replanted
after the night's work; or, just at dusk
a bunch of white feathers may be tied to point
the position of each.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/i030.png" border="0" alt="Bagging a Covey with a Silk Net" title="" width="700" height="415"></div>
<p>The planting of grain patches along the
moor-side has been mentioned, and on these in
late autumn great numbers of birds are bagged.<a name="Page_119" id="Page_119"></a><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118"></a><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117"></a>
Grouse are exceedingly fond of oats, and in
the early morning the stooks are sometimes
almost black with them. A pot shot here
from behind a wall or fence is generally a
profitable one, as the heavy charge of shot is
sent straight at the "brown." Black-game
are as keen as red grouse on oats, and a few
sheaves thrown about always attracts them.
Although the blackcock is a noble bird in
appearance, he is dull and heavy, and is easily
bagged. Early in the season the birds lie
until almost trod upon, and of all game are the
easiest to net. They roost on the ground, and
usually seek out some sheltered brae-side
on which to sleep. If closely watched at
evening, it is not difficult to clap a silk net
over them upon the first favourable night,
when both mother and grown young are
bagged together. That there are gentlemen
poachers as well as casuals and amateurs, the
following incident relating to black-game
shows: "On a dull misty day they are easily
got at: they will sit on the thorn bushes
and alders, and let the shooter pick them off<a name="Page_120" id="Page_120"></a>
one by one. I remember once, on such a day,
taking a noble sportsman who was very keen
to shoot a blackcock, up to some black game
sitting on a thorn hedge. When he got within
about twenty-five yards he fired his first barrel
(after taking a very deliberate aim) at an old
grey hen. She took no notice, only shaking
her feathers a little, and hopping a short distance
further on. The same result with the
second barrel. He loaded again and fired.
This time the old hen turned round, and
looked to see where the noise and unpleasant
tickling sensation came from, and grew uneasy;
the next attempt made her fly on to where
her companions were sitting, and our friend
then gave up his weapon to me in despair.
Black game grow very stupid also when on
stubbles; they will let a man fire at them, and
if they do not see him, will fly round the field
and settle again, or pitch on a wall quite near
to him. Grouse will do the same thing.
There is not much 'sport' in such shooting
as this, but when out alone, and wanting to
make a bag, it is a sure and quick way to do<a name="Page_121" id="Page_121"></a>
so. It may be called 'poaching'—all I can
say is, there would be many more gentlemen
poachers if they could obtain such chances,
and could not get game in any other way."</p>
<p>Both grouse and black game may frequently
be brought within range by placing a dead or
stuffed bird on a rock or a stone wall. A
small forked stick is made to support the head
and neck of the decoy "dummy," which, if
there are birds in the vicinity, soon attracts
them. As a rule the lure is not long successful,
but sufficiently so as to enable the
poacher to make a big bag. Upon one occasion
I made a remarkable addition to our
fur and feather. In the darkness a movement
was heard among the dense branches of a
Scotch fir, when, looking up, a large bird which
seemed as big as a turkey commenced to
flutter off. It was stopped before it had flown
many yards, and proved to be a handsome
cock Capercailzie in splendid plumage. Had I
been certain as to what it was I certainly
should not have fired.<a name="Page_122" id="Page_122"></a></p>
<p>Grouse stalking is fascinating sport, and by
this method I usually made my greatest
achievements. The stalking was mainly done
from behind an old moorland horse, with
which I had struck up an acquaintance; and it
learned to stand fire like a war veteran. I
used to think it enjoyed the sport, and I
believe it did. With the aid of my shaggy
friend I have successfully stalked hundreds
of grouse, as its presence seemed to allay both
fear and suspicion. Firing over its back, its
neck, or beneath its belly—all were taken
alike, patiently and sedately. An occasional
handful of oats, or half a loaf, cemented the
friendship of the old horse—my best and most
constant poaching companion for years.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" class="newpg"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123"></a>
<a name="CHAPTER_9" id="CHAPTER_9"></a>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/i031.png" border="0" alt="Chapter 9." title="" width="700" height="325"></div>
<hr style="width: 20%;margin-top:.5em;margin-bottom:.06em;">
<hr style="width: 20%;margin-bottom:1em;margin-top:.06em;">
<h2 class="smcap">Rabbit Poaching.</h2>
<div class="figparts1">
<img class="parts" src="images/i031_worda.png" width="96" height="45" alt="If" title="">
</div>
<div class="figparts1">
<img class="parts" src="images/i031_wordb.png" width="70" height="58" alt="" title="">
</div>
<p style="text-indent: 0em;">well trained lurchers are absolutely
necessary to hare poaching, ferrets are
just as important to successful rabbit
poaching. Nearly nothing in fur can be done
without them. However lucky the moucher
may be among pheasants, partridge, or grouse,
rabbits are and must be the chief product of
his nights. Of the methods of obtaining
them—field netting, well-traps, shooting—all
are as nothing compared with silent ferreting.</p>
<p>In the north we have two well-defined
varieties of ferret—one a brown colour and<a name="Page_124" id="Page_124"></a>
known as the polecat-ferret; the other, the
common white variety. The first is the hardier,
and it is to secure this quality that poachers
cross their ferrets with the wild polecat. Unlike
lurchers, ferrets require but little training, and
seem to work instinctively. There are various
reasons why poachers prefer white ferrets
to the polecat variety. At night a brown
ferret is apt to be nipped up in mistake for a
rabbit; while a white one is always apparent,
even when moving among the densest herbage.
Hence mouchers invariably use white ones.
Gamekeepers who know their business prefer
ferrets taken from poachers to any other. I
was always particularly careful in selecting
my stock, as from the nature of my trade I
could ill afford to use bad ones. Certain
strains of ferrets cause rabbits to bolt rapidly,
while others are slow and sluggish. It need
hardly be said that I always used the former.
Even the best, however, will sometimes drive
a rabbit to the end of a "blind" burrow; <a name="tn_png_127"></a><!--TN: "an" changed to "and"-->and
after killing it will not return until it <a name="tn_png_127a"></a><!--TN: "ha" changed to "has"-->has
gorged itself with blood. And more <a name="tn_png_127b"></a><!--TN: "troub" changed to "trouble"-->trouble<a name="Page_125" id="Page_125"></a>
is added if the ferret curls itself up for an after-dinner
sleep. Then it has either to be left or
dug out. The latter process is long, the burrows
ramify far into the mound, and it is not just
known in which the ferret remains. If it
be left it is well to bar every hole with
stones, and then return with a dead rabbit when
hunger succeeds the gorged sleep. It is to
guard against such occasions as these that
working ferrets are generally muzzled. A
cruel practise used to obtain among poachers
of stitching together the lips of ferrets to prevent
their worrying rabbits and then "laying
up." For myself I made a muzzle of soft string
which was effective, and at the same time comfortable
to wear. When there was a chance
of being surprised at night work I occasionally
worked ferrets with a line attached; but this is
an objectionable practice and does not always
answer. There may be a root or stick in which
the line gets entangled, when there will be
digging and no end of trouble to get the ferret
out. From these facts, and the great uncertainty
of ferreting, it will be understood why poachers<a name="Page_126" id="Page_126"></a>
can afford to use only the best animals. A
tangled hedgebank with coarse herbage was
<a name="tn_png_129"></a><!--TN: "alwasy" changed to "always"-->always a favourite spot for my depredations.
There are invariably two, often half a dozen
holes, to the same burrow. Small purse nets
are spread over these, and I always preferred
these loose to being pegged or fixed in any
way. When all the nets are set the ferrets are
turned in. They do not proceed immediately,
but sniff the mouth of the hole; their indecision
is only momentary, however, for soon
the tip of the tail disappears in the darkness.
And now silence is essential to success, as
rabbits refuse to bolt if there is the slightest
noise outside. A dull thud, a rush, and a
rabbit goes rolling over and over entangled in
the purse. Reserve nets are quickly clapped on
the holes as the rabbits bolt, the latter invariably
being taken except where a couple come
together. Standing on the mound a shot would
stop these as they go bounding through the
dead leaves, but the sound would bring up the
keeper, and so one has to practise self-denial.
Unlike hares, rabbits rarely squeal when they<a name="Page_127" id="Page_127"></a>
become entangled; and this allows one to
ferret long and silently. Rabbits bolt best on
a windy day and before noon; after that they
are sluggish and often refuse to come out at all.
This is day ferreting, but of course mine was
done mainly at night. In this case the dogs
always ranged the land, and drove everything off
it before we commenced operations. On good
ground a mound or brae sometimes seemed to
explode with rabbits, so wildly did they fly
before their deadly foe. I have seen a score
driven from one set of holes, while five
or six couples is not at all uncommon. When
ferrets are running the burrows, stoats and
weasels are occasionally driven out; and among
other strange things unearthed I remember a
brown owl, a stock-dove, and a shell-drake—each
of which happened to be breeding in the
mounds.</p>
<div class="figright" style="padding-bottom:.3em;padding-top:.3em;"><img src="images/i032.png" border="0" alt="Man with Lurcher" title="" width="600" height="394"></div>
<p>The confines of a large estate constitute a
poacher's paradise, for although partridge and
grouse require land suited to their taste, rabbits
and pheasants are common to all preserved
ground. And then the former may be taken<a name="Page_128" id="Page_128"></a>
at any time, and in so many different ways.
They are abundant, too, and always find a
ready market. The penalties attached to rabbit
poaching are less than those of game, and the
conies need not be followed into closely
preserved coverts. The extermination of the
rabbit will be contemporaneous with that of
the lurcher and poacher—two institutions of
village life which date back to the time of the
New Forest. Of the many mouching modes
for taking conies, ferretting, as already stated,
and field netting are the most common. Traps
with steel jaws are sometimes set in runs,
inserted in the turf so as to bring them
flush with the sward. But destruction by this
method is not sufficiently wholesale, and the
upturned white under-parts of the rabbit's fur
show too plainly against the green. The
poacher's methods must be quick, and he cannot
afford to visit by day traps set in the dark.
The night must cover all his doings. When
the unscrupulous keeper finds a snare he sometimes
puts a leveret into it, and secretes himself.
Then he waits, and captures the poacher "in<a name="Page_129" id="Page_129"></a>
the act." As with some other methods already
mentioned, the trap poacher is only a casual.
Ferretting is silent and almost invariably
successful. In warrens, both inequalities of
the ground,
mounds, and
ditches afford
good
cover.
My best
and most
wholesale
method of field-poaching for rabbits was by
means of two long nets. These are from a hundred
to a hundred and fifty yards in length, and
about four feet high. They are usually made of
silk, and are light and strong, and easily
portable. These are set parallel to each other
along the edge of a wood, about thirty<a name="Page_130" id="Page_130"></a>
yards out into the pasture. Only about four
inches divides the nets. A dark windy night
is best for the work, as in such weather
rabbits feed far out in the fields. On a night
of this character, too, the game neither hears
nor sees the poacher. The nets are long—the
first small in mesh, that immediately behind
large. When a rabbit or hare strikes, the
impetus takes a part of the first net and its
contents through the larger mesh of the second,
and there, hanging, the creature struggles until
it is knocked on the head with a stick. Immediately
the nets are set, two men and a
brace of lurchers range the ground in front,
slowly and patiently, and gradually drive
every feeding thing woodwards. A third man
quietly paces the sward behind the nets, killing
whatever strikes them. In this way I have
taken many scores of rabbits in a single
night. On the confines of a large estate a rather
clever trick was once played upon us. Each
year about half-a-dozen black or white rabbits
were turned down into certain woods. Whilst
feeding, these stood out conspicuously from the<a name="Page_131" id="Page_131"></a>
rest, and were religiously preserved. Upon
these the keepers kept a close watch, and when
any were missing it was suspected what was
going on, when the watching strength was
increased. As soon as we detected the trick,
we were careful to let the coloured rabbits go
free. We found that it was altogether to our
interest to preserve them.</p>
<p>During night poaching for rabbits and hares
the ground game is driven from its feeding
ground to the woods or copses. Precisely the
reverse method is employed during the day
when the game is in cover. The practice
is to find a spinny in which both rabbits and
hares are known to lie; and then to set purse
nets on the outside of every opening which
may possibly be used by the frightened animals.
The smaller the wood or patch of cover the
easier it is to work. A man, with or without
a dog, enters the covert, and his presence soon
induces the furry denizens to bolt. As these
rush through their customary runs they find
themselves in the meshes of a net, and every
struggle only makes them faster. This method<a name="Page_132" id="Page_132"></a>
has the disadvantage of being done in the light,
but where there is much game is very deadly.</p>
<p>Snares for hares and rabbits are not used
nearly so much now as formerly. For all that,
they are useful in outlying districts, or on land
that is not closely watched. For hares the
snare is a wire noose tied to a stick with string,
and placed edgeways in the trod. To have the
snare the right height is an important matter;
and it will be found that two fists high for a
hare, and one for a rabbit, is the most deadly.
Casuals set their snares in hedge-bottoms,
but these are no good. Two or three feet
away from the hedge is the most killing position—for
this reason: when a hare canters up
to a fence it never immediately bounds
through; it pauses about a yard away, then
leaps into the hedge-bottom. It is during
this last leap that it puts its neck into the
noose and is taken. If a keeper merely
watches a snare until it is "lifted," good and
well; but to put a hare or rabbit into it and
then pounce on the moucher—well, that is a
different matter. It is not difficult to see where<a name="Page_133" id="Page_133"></a>
a hare has been taken, especially if the run in
which the snare was set was damp. There
will be the hole where the peg has been, and
the ground will be beaten flat by the struggles
of the animal in endeavouring to free itself.</p>
<p>Field-netting for rabbits may be prevented
in the same way as for partridges—by thorning
the ground where the game feeds. It is quite
a mistake to plant thorns, or even to stake out
large branches. The only ones that at all
trouble the poacher are small thorns which are
left absolutely free on the ground. These get
into the net, roll it up hopelessly in a
short time, and if this once occurs everything
escapes. Large thorns are easily seen and
easily removed, but the abominable ones are
the small ones left loose on the surface of the
ground.</p>
<p>The most certain and wholesale method of
rabbit poaching I ever practised was also the
most daring. The engine employed was the
"well-trap." This is a square, deep box, built
into the ground, and immediately opposite to
a smoot-hole in the fence through which the<a name="Page_134" id="Page_134"></a>
rabbits run from wood or covert to field or
pasture. Through a hole in the wall or fence
a wooden trough or box is inserted. As
the rabbits run through, the floor opens beneath
their weight, and they drop into the
"well." Immediately the pressure is removed
the floor springs back to its original position, and
thus a score or more rabbits are often taken
in a single night. In the construction of these
"well-traps," rough and unbarked wood is
used, though, even after this precaution, the
rabbits will not take them for weeks. Then,
they become familiar; the weather washes
away all scent, and the "well" is a wholesale
engine of destruction. All surface traces
of the existence of the trap must be
covered over with dead leaves and woodland
debris. The rabbits, of course, are taken alive,
and the best way of killing them is by
stretching them across the knee, and so dislocating
the spine. If the keeper once finds out
the trap the game is up. Whilst it lasts, however,
it kills more rabbits than every other
stroke of woodcraft the poacher knows.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" class="newpg"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135"></a>
<a name="CHAPTER_10" id="CHAPTER_10"></a>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/i033.png" border="0" alt="Chapter 10." title="" width="700" height="389"></div>
<hr style="width: 20%;margin-top:.5em;margin-bottom:.06em;">
<hr style="width: 20%;margin-bottom:1em;margin-top:.06em;">
<h2 class="smcap">Tricks.</h2>
<div class="figparts1">
<img class="parts" src="images/i007_worda.png" width="236" height="60" alt="When" title="">
</div>
<div class="figparts1">
<img class="parts" src="images/i007_wordb.png" width="118" height="43" alt="" title="">
</div>
<p style="text-indent: 0em;">it is known that a man's life is
one long protest against the Game
Laws he has to be exceedingly careful
of his comings and goings. Every constable,
every gamekeeper, and most workers in woodcraft
are aware of the motives which bring him
abroad at night. More eyes are upon him<a name="Page_136" id="Page_136"></a>
than he sees, and no one knows better than
he that the enemies most to be feared
are those who are least seen; and the man
who has tasted the bitterness of poaching
penalties will do everything in his power to
escape detection. Probably the greatest aid
to this end is knowing the country by heart;
the field-paths and disused bye-ways, the
fordable parts of the river, and a hundred
things beside. The poacher is and must be
suspicious of everyone he meets.</p>
<p>In planning and carrying out forays I was
always careful to observe two conditions. No
poaching secret was ever confided to another;
and I invariably endeavoured to get to the
ground unseen. If my out-going was observed
it often entailed a circuit of a dozen miles in
coming home, and even then the entry into
town was not without considerable risk. The
hand of everyone was against me in my
unlawful calling, and many were the shifts I
had to make to escape detection or capture.
To show with what success this may be carried
out, the following incident will show.<a name="Page_137" id="Page_137"></a></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/i034.png" border="0" alt="Donkey with Panniers" title="" width="700" height="524"></div>
<p>I conceived the idea of openly shooting
certain well-stocked coverts during the temporary
absence of the owner. These were so
well watched that all the ordinary measures at
night seemed likely to be baffled. To openly
shoot during broad day, and under the very
eye of the keeper, was now the essential part
of the programme; and to this end I must
explain as follows: The keeper on the estate
was but lately come to the district. Upon
two occasions when I had been placed in the
dock, I had been described as "a poacher of
gentlemanly appearance," and "the gentleman
poacher again." (My forefathers had been
small estatesmen for generations, and I suppose
that some last lingering air of gentility attached
to me). Well, I had arranged with a
confederate to act as bag carrier; he was to
be very servile, and not to forget to touch
his cap at pretty frequent intervals. After
"making up" as a country squire—(I had
closely studied the species on the <a name="tn_png_140"></a><!--TN: Comma removed after "Bench"-->"Bench")—and
providing a luncheon in keeping with my
temporary "squiredom," we started for the<a name="Page_138" id="Page_138"></a>
woods. It was a bright morning in the last
week of October, and game—hares, pheasants,
and woodcock—was exceedingly plentiful.
The first firing brought up the keeper, who
touched his hat in the most respectful fashion.
He behaved, in short, precisely as I would
have had him behave. I lost no time on
quietly congratulating him on the number and
quality of his birds; told him that his master
would return from town to-morrow (which
I had learned incidentally), and ended by
handing him my cartridge bag to carry. A
splendid bag of birds had been made by luncheon
time, and the viands which constituted
the meal were very much in keeping with my
assumed position. Dusk came at the close of
the short October afternoon, and with it the
end of our day's sport. The bag was spread
out in one of the rides of the wood, and in
imagination I can see it now—thirty-seven
pheasants, nine hares, five woodcock, a few
rabbits, some cushats, and the usual "miscellaneous."
The man of gaiters was despatched
a couple of miles for a cart to carry the spoil,<a name="Page_139" id="Page_139"></a>
and a substantial "tip" gave speed to his not
unwilling legs. The game, however, was not
to occupy the cart. A donkey with panniers
was waiting in a clump of brush by the covert
side, and as soon as the panniers were packed,
its head was turned homeward over a wild bit
of moorland. With the start obtained, chase
would have been fruitless had it ever been
contemplated—which it never was. I need
not detail the sequel to the incident here, and<a name="Page_140" id="Page_140"></a>
may say that it was somewhat painful to myself
as well as my bag carrier. And I am sorry to
say that the keeper was summarily dismissed
by the enraged squire as a reward for his innocence.
As to the coverts, they were so well
stocked, that after a few days' rest there
appeared as much game as ever, and the
contents of our little bag were hardly
missed.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="padding-bottom:.3em;padding-top:.3em;"><img src="images/i035.png" border="0" alt="Attired like a Quaker" title="" width="390" height="700"></div>
<p>Another trick to which my co-worker
used to resort was to
attire himself in broad-brimmed
hat and black coat similar
to those worn a century
ago by the people called
Quakers. In the former he
carried his nets, and in the capacious
pockets of the latter the game
he took. These outward guarantees of
good faith, away from his own parish,
precluded him from ever once being
searched. I have already remarked,
and every practical poacher knows
it to be the fact, that the difficulty is<a name="Page_141" id="Page_141"></a>
not so much to obtain game as to transport it
safely home. Although our dogs were trained
to run on a hundred yards in advance so as to
give warning of the approach of a possible
enemy—even this did not always save us. A
big bag of game handicaps one severely in a
cross-country run, and it is doubly galling to
have to sacrifice it. Well, upon the particular
occasion to which I refer there was to be a
country funeral with a hearse from the neighbouring
market town, and of this I was
determined to take advantage. By arranging
with the driver I was enabled to stow myself
and a large haul in the body of the vehicle, and,
although the journey was a cramped and stuffy
one, we in time reached our destination. As
we came behind the nearest game shop the
driver undid the door, and the questionable
corpse was safely landed.</p>
<p>I need hardly say that in a long life of
poaching there were many occasions when I
was brought to book. These, however, would
form but a small percentage of the times I was
"out." My success in this way was probably<a name="Page_142" id="Page_142"></a>
owing to the fact that I was chary as to those
I took into confidence, and knew that above
all things keeping my own council was the
best wisdom. Another moucher I knew,
but with whom I would have nothing to
do, was an instance of one who told poaching
secrets to village gossips. The "Mole" spent
most of <i>his</i> time in the county gaol, and just
lately he completed his sixty-fifth incarceration—only
a few of which were for offences outside
the game laws. Well, there came a time
when all the keepers round the country side
had their revenge on me, and they made the
most of it. I and my companion were fairly
caught by being driven into an ambuscade by
a combination of keepers. Exultant in my capture,
the keepers from almost every estate in
the neighbourhood flocked to witness my conviction.
Some of them who had at times only
seen a vanishing form in the darkness, now
attended to see the man, as they put it. As I
had always been followed at nights by an old
black bitch, she, too, was produced in court,
and proved an object of much curiosity. Well,<a name="Page_143" id="Page_143"></a>
our case was called, and, as we had no good
defence to set up, it was agreed that my companion
should do the talking. Without letting
it appear so, we had a very definite object in
prolonging the hearing of the case. There was
never any great inclination to hurry such
matters, as the magistrates always seemed to
enjoy them. "We had been taken in the act,"
my co-worker told the bench. "We deserved
no quarter, and asked none. Poaching was
right by the Bible, but wrong by the law,"—and
so he was rushing on. One of the Justices
deigned to remark that it was a question of
"property" not morality. "Oh!" rejoined
the "Otter," "because blue blood doesn't run<a name="Page_144" id="Page_144"></a>
in my veins that's no reason why I shouldn't
have my share. But <a name="tn_png_147"></a><!--TN: "its" changed to "it's"-->it's a queer kind of
property that's yours in that field, mine on the
turnpike, and a third man's over the next
fence." The end of it was, however, a fine of
£5, with an alternative. And so the case
ended. But that day the keepers and their
assistants had forgotten the first principles of
watching. The best keeper is the one that is
the least seen. Only let the poacher know his
whereabouts, and the latter's work is easy. It
was afterwards remarked that during our trial
not a poacher was in court. To any keeper
skilled in his craft this fact must have appeared
unusual—and significant. It became even more
so when both of us were released by reason of
our heavy fine having been paid the same
evening. Most of the keepers had had their
day out, and were making the most of it.
Had their heads not been muddled they might
have seen more than one woman labouring
under loaded baskets near the local game
dealers; these innocently covered with mantling
cresses, and so, at the time, escaping<a name="Page_145" id="Page_145"></a>
suspicion. Upon the memorable day the
pheasants had been fed by unseen hands—and
had vanished. The only traces left by the
covert side were fluffy feathers everywhere.
Few hares remained on the land; the rest had
either been snared or netted at the gates. The
rabbits' burrows had been ferreted, the ferrets
having been slyly borrowed at the keeper's
cottage during his absence for the occasion. I
may say that, in connection with this incident,
we always claimed to poach square, and drew
the line at home-reared pheasants—allowing
them "property." Those found wild in the
woods were on a different footing, and we directed
our whole knowledge of woodcraft
against them.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/i036.png" border="0" alt="Two Men in Court" title="" width="700" height="330"></div>
<p>Here is another "court" incident, in which
I and my companion played a part. We came
in contact with the law just sufficient to make
us know something of its bearings. When
charged with being in possession of "game"
we reiterated the old argument that rabbits
were vermin—but it rarely stood us in good
stead. On one occasion, however, we scored.<a name="Page_146" id="Page_146"></a>
Being committed for two months for "night
poaching," we respectfully informed the presiding
Justice that, at the time of our capture,
the sun had risen an hour; and further, that
the law did not allow more than half the sentence
just passed upon us. Our magistrate
friend—to whom I have more than once referred—was
on the bench, and he told his
brother Justices that he thought there was
something in the contention. The old Clerk
looked crabbed as he fumbled for his horn
spectacles, and, after turning over a book
called "Stone's Justices' Manual," he solemnly
informed the bench that defendants in their
interpretation were right. We naturally remember
this little incident, and as the law has
had the whip hand of us upon so many occasions,
chuckle over it.</p>
<p>We invariably made friends with the stone-breakers
by the road-sides, and just as invariably
carried about us stone-breakers'
hammers, and "preserves" for the eyes.
When hard pressed, and if unknown to the
pursuing keeper, nothing is easier than to dis<a name="Page_147" id="Page_147"></a>miss
the dog, throw off one's coat, plump
down upon the first stone heap on the road,
and go to work. If the thing is neatly done,
and the "preserves" cover the face, it is
wonderful how often this ruse is successful.
The keeper may put a hasty question, but he
oftener rushes after his man. Mention of
stone-heaps reminds me of the fact that they
are better "hides" for nets than almost anything
else, especially the larger unbroken
heaps. We invariably hid our big cumbrous
fishing nets beneath them, and the stones
were just as invariably true to their trust.</p>
<p>Going back to my earliest poaching days I
remember a cruel incident which had a very
different ending to what its author intended.
A young keeper had made a wager that he
would effect my capture within a certain number
of days, and my first intimation of this
fact was a sickening sight which I discovered
in passing down a woodland glade just at dawn
on a bright December morning. I heard a
groan, and a few yards in front saw a man
stretched across the ride. His clothes were<a name="Page_148" id="Page_148"></a>
covered with hoar frost, he was drenched in
blood, and the poor fellow's pale face showed
me that of the keeper. He was held fast in a
man-trap which had terribly lacerated his
lower limbs. He was conscious, but quite
exhausted. Although in great agony he suffered
me to carry him to a neighbouring hay-rick,
from whence we removed him to his
cottage. He recovered slowly, and the man-trap
which he had set the night before was, I
believe, the last ever used in that district.</p>
<a name="Page_149" id="Page_149"></a>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/i037.png" border="0" alt="Injured Man being Carried" title="" width="448" height="700"></div>
<p><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150"></a>
<hr style="width: 65%;" class="newpg"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151"></a>
<a name="CHAPTER_11" id="CHAPTER_11"></a>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/i038.png" border="0" alt="Chapter 11." title="" width="700" height="322"></div>
<hr style="width: 20%;margin-top:.5em;margin-bottom:.06em;">
<hr style="width: 20%;margin-bottom:1em;margin-top:.06em;">
<h2 class="smcap">Personal Encounters.</h2>
<div class="figparts1">
<img class="parts" src="images/i007_worda.png" width="236" height="60" alt="When" title="">
</div>
<div class="figparts1">
<img class="parts" src="images/i007_wordb.png" width="118" height="43" alt="" title="">
</div>
<p style="text-indent: 0em;">I had finished the last chapter
I thought I had completed my work,
but the gentleman who is to edit
these "Confessions" now tells me that I am
to confess more. He reminds me that I
cannot have been an active poacher nearly all
my life without having had numerous personal<a name="Page_152" id="Page_152"></a>
encounters with keepers and others. And in
this he is right. But there is some difficulty in
my additional task for the following reasons:
I have never cared to take much credit to
myself for having broken the head of a keeper,
and there is but little pleasure to me in recounting
the occasions when keepers have
broken mine. However, speaking of broken
heads reminds me of an incident which was
amusing, though, at the time, somewhat painful
to me.</p>
<p>One night in November when the trees were
bare, and the pheasants had taken to the
branches, we were in a mixed wood of pine
and beech. A good many birds roosted on
its confines, and, to a practised eye, were not
difficult to see against the moon as they
sat on the lower limbs of the trees, near the
trunks. I and my companion had old, strong
guns with barrels filed down, and, as we
got very near to the birds, we were using
small charges of powder. As the night was
windy the shots would not be heard very far,
and we felt fairly safe. When we had obtained<a name="Page_153" id="Page_153"></a>
about three brace of birds, however, I
heard a sudden crash among the underwood,
when I immediately jumped behind the bole of
a tree, and kept closely against it.</p>
<p>The head-keeper had my companion down
before he could resist, and I only remained
undiscovered for a few seconds. One of the
under-keepers seized me, but, being a good
wrestler, I soon threw him into a dense brake
of brambles and blackthorn. Then I bolted
with the third man close behind. I could
easily have outrun him over the rough country
that lay outside the wood, but—ah! these
"buts"—there was a stiff stone fence fully
five feet high betwixt me and the open. Unless
I could "fly" the fence he would have
me. I clutched my pockets, steadied myself
for the leap—and then sprang. I heard my
pursuer stop for a second to await the issue.
Weighted as I was I caught the coping, and
fell back heavily into the wood. As soon as
the keeper saw I was down he rushed forward
and hit me heavily on the head with a stave.
The sharp corner cut right through the skin,<a name="Page_154" id="Page_154"></a>
and blood spurted out in little jets. Then I
turned about, determined to close with my
opponent if he was inclined for further roughness.
But he was not. When he saw that
the blood was almost blinding me he dropped
his hedge-stake, and ran, apparently terrified
at what he had done. I leaned for a few
moments against the wall, then dragged myself
over, and started for a stream which ran down
the field. But I felt weaker at every step, and
soon crept into a bed of tall brackens, and
plugged the wound in my head with a handful
of wet moss, keeping it in position with my
neckerchief. After this I munched some
bread and hard cheese, sucked the dew from
the fern fronds, and then fell into a broken
sleep. I must have slept for four or five
hours, when I woke thirsty and feverish, and
very weak. I tried to walk, but again and
again fell down. Then I crawled for about a
hundred yards, but this caused my wound to
bleed afresh, and I fainted. Just as day was
coming a farm labourer came across, and
kindly helped me to his cottage. He and his<a name="Page_155" id="Page_155"></a>
wife bathed my head and eyes, and then assisted
me to the bed from which they had just
risen. At noon I was able to take some bread
and milk, and at night, an hour after darkness
had fallen, I was able to start for home.</p>
<p>Well, the sequel came in due time. We
each received a summons (my companion had
been released after identification), we were
tried in about a fortnight from the date of our
capture. There was a full bench of Magistrates;
my companion pleaded guilty (with a view to a
lenient sentence); myself—not guilty. In the
first instance the case was clear, but not one of
the three keepers (to their credit) would swear
to me. They looked me carefully over, particularly
my assailant. He was reminded that
it was a fine, moonlight night. Yes, but his
man, he thought, was taller, was more strongly
built, and looked pale and haggard—no, he
would not say that I was the man—in short, he
thought I was not. Then came my innings.
The keeper had sworn that, after running a
mile, the poacher he chased had turned on him,
and threatened to "do for him," if he advanced;<a name="Page_156" id="Page_156"></a>
that he had hit him on the head with
his stick, and must have wounded him
severely. He was also careful to explain that
he had done this in "self defence." I then
pointed out to the "bench" that it was no
longer a matter of opinion; that I claimed to
have my head examined, and asked that the
Police Superintendent, who was conducting
the case, should settle the point.</p>
<p>But my assumption of an air of injured innocence
had already done its work, and the
presiding Magistrate said there was no evidence
against me; that the case as against me
was dismissed.</p>
<p>I had hard work to get out of the box
without smiling, for even then the pain in my
head was acute, and I was not right for weeks
after. I knew, however, that my wound was a
dangerous possession, and close attention to
my thick, soft hair, enabled me to hide it, always
providing that it was not too closely
examined. My companion was less fortunate,
and his share of the proceedings, poor fellow,
was "two months."<a name="Page_157" id="Page_157"></a></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/i039.png" border="0" alt="Two Men by a Burning Hut" title="" width="700" height="533"></div>
<p>Here is the record of another encounter.
There was a certain wood, the timber in which
had been felled and carted. It had previously
contained a good deal of "coppice," and after
the wood-cutters had done their work, this
had been utilized by the charcoal burners.
The ashes from the charcoal had promoted
quite an unseasonable growth, and everywhere
about the stoles of the ash roots and hazel
snags, fresh green grass and clover were
springing. The hares on the neighbouring
estate had found out this, and came nightly
to the clearing to feed. As there were neither
gaps nor gates we found it impossible to
net them, and so had to resort to another
device. Before the wood had been cleared
rabbits had swarmed in it, and these had found
ingress and egress through "smoots" in the
stone fences. Upon examination we found that
the larger of these were regularly used by our
quarry, and, as we could not net them, we
determined to plant a purse net at every smoot,
drive the wood with fast dogs, and so bag our
game. When everything was ready the lurchers<a name="Page_158" id="Page_158"></a>
commenced their work, and, thoroughly
grasping the programme, worked up to it
admirably. Each dog that "found" drove its
hare fast and furiously (this was necessary),
and, in an hour, a dozen were bagged. There
was only this disadvantage. The wood was so
large, the smoots so far apart, that many
of the hares screamed for some seconds before
they could be dispatched. The continuance
of this screaming brought up the keepers, and
our game was up, and with it what we had
bagged. The watchers numbered four or five,
and, leaving everything, we ran. In our line
of retreat was an abandoned hut built by the
charcoal burners, consisting of poles, with
heather and fern for roof and sides. We made
for this, hoping, in the darkness, to elude
our pursuers, then double in our tracks
as soon as they had passed. But they were
not so easily deceived. As soon as the
crackling of the dead sticks caused by our
tread had ceased, they evidently suspected
some trick, and knew that we were still in the
wood. And the hut was the first object of<a name="Page_159" id="Page_159"></a>
search. As they were quite unaware of our
number they declined to enter, but invited us
into the open. We replied by barricading the
narrow doorway with poles and planks which
we found within. Of course this was only
completing our imprisonment, but we felt that
one or more of their number would be sent for
<a name="tn_png_162"></a><!--TN: "fnrther" changed to "further"-->further help, and that then we would make a
dash to escape. We agreed to take off in
different directions, to divide the attacking
force, and then lead them across the roughest
country we could find. A deep stream was
not far off, and here we would probably
escape. But our scheme went wrong—or,
rather, we had no opportunity to put it into
practice. After waiting and listening awhile
we saw lights glisten in the chinks of the
heather walls, and then fumes of smoke began
to creep up them. They were burning us out.
Quietly as we could we undid the barricading,
and, as the air rushed in, tiny tongues of flame
shot up the heather. Now we lay low with
our faces on the damp floor. Then a pole was
thrust through. Another current of air and<a name="Page_160" id="Page_160"></a>
the flames shot everywhere. The thick smoke
nearly stifled us, and the heat became intense.
The fire ran up the poles, and burning bits of
the heather roof began to fall. Then came the
crisis. A fir pole had been raised without,
and then was to crash through the hut. This
was the first outside proceeding we had
seen—we saw it through the riddled walls.
As soon as the men loosed their hold of the
tree for its fall we sprang from the doorway;
and then for a few seconds the sight was magnificent.
As the roof crashed in the whole
hut was one bright mass of flame, and a sheet
of fire shot upwards into the night. The
burning brackens and ling sent out myriads of
sparks, and these falling around gave us a few
seconds' start. As agreed, we each hurled
a burning brand among the keepers, then disappeared
in the darkness. Certainly no one
followed us out of the wood. We had simply
scored by lying low with the fire about us,
taking advantage of the confusion and dazzling
light, and then knowing our way out of the
difficulty. The squire's son, we saw, was one<a name="Page_163" id="Page_163"></a><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162"></a><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161"></a>
of the attacking party. We were a bit burnt,
we lost the game and nets, but were quite
content to have escaped so easily.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/i040.png" border="0" alt="Two Men in a Tree" title="" width="700" height="466"></div>
<p>There is another incident which I have
good cause to remember all my life. It is of
a somewhat different nature to the foregoing,
and occurred on the estuary of the river which
I used frequently to net with good results.
Someone who was certainly not very friendly
disposed had seen me and my companion start
for our fishing ground, and had made the most of
their knowledge. After getting to the near
vicinity of our work, we lay down beneath a
hay-rick to wait for a degree of darkness.
Then we crawled on hands and knees by the
side of a fence until it brought us to a familiar
pool which we knew to be well stocked with
salmon and trout. As we surveyed the water
we heard voices, and knew that the pool was
watched. These sounds seemed to come from
the lower limbs of a big tree, and soon one of
the watchers hidden in the branches stupidly
struck a match to light his pipe. This not
only frescoed two forms against the night, but<a name="Page_164" id="Page_164"></a>
lit up their faces with a red glow. The discovery
was a stroke of luck. We knew where
we had the water bailiffs, and the rest was easy.
We got quietly away from the spot, and soon
were at work in a pool further up stream.
No one but a gaunt heron objected to our
fishing, and we made a splendid haul. The
salmon and sea-trout had begun to run,
and swarmed everywhere along the reaches.
We hid our net in the "otter" holes, and,
under heavy loads, made for home across the
meadows. We were well aware that the local
police changed duty at six in the morning, and
timed our entry into town precisely at that
hour. But our absence of the previous night
had gone further abroad, and the local Angling
Association, the Conservancy Board, and the
police had each interested themselves in our
doings. It was quite unsafe to hide the spoil,
as was usual, and home it must be carried. I
was now alone. In the open I felt comparatively
safe, but as I neared my destination
I knew not whom I should meet round the
next turn. Presently, however, it seemed as<a name="Page_167" id="Page_167"></a><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166"></a><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165"></a>
though I was in luck. Every wall, every
hedgerow, every mound aided my going.
Now a dash across an open field would land
me almost at my own door. Then I should
be safe. I had hardly had time to congratulate
myself on my getting in unobserved when a
constable, then a second, and a third were all
tearing down upon me from watch points, where
they had been in hiding. The odds were against
me, but I grasped my load desperately, drew
it tightly upon my shoulders, and ran. The
police had thrown down their capes, and were
rapidly gaining upon me. I got into a long
slouching trot, however, determined to make
a desperate effort to get in, where I should
have been safe. This they knew. Strong
and fleet as I was I was too heavily handicapped,
but I felt that even though I fell
exhausted on the other side of the door-way, I
would gain it. My pursuers—all heavy men—were
blown, and in trouble, and I knew there
was now no obstacle before me. Now it was
only a distance of twenty yards—now a dozen.
The great thuds of the men's feet were close<a name="Page_168" id="Page_168"></a>
upon me, and they breathed like beaten
horses. My legs trembled beneath me, and
I was blinded by perspiration. "Seize him,"
"seize him," gasped the sergeant—but I was
only a yard from the door. With a desperate
feeling that I had won, I grasped the handle
and threw my whole weight and that of my
load against the door, only to find it—locked.
I fell back on to the stones, and the stern
chase was ended.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="padding-bottom:1em;padding-top:1em;"><img src="images/i041.png" border="0" alt="Constables Looking at Large Pile of Fish" title="" width="700" height="574"></div>
<p>For a minute nobody spoke—nobody was
able to. I lay where I fell, and the men
leaned against what was nearest them. Then
the sergeant condescended to say "poor beggar"—and
we all moved off. The fish were
turned out on the grass in the police station
yard, and were a sight to see. There were
ninety trout, thirty-seven salmon-morts, and
two salmon. I was not detained. One
of the men handed me a mort, telling
me I would be ready for a substantial breakfast.
I knew what it all meant, and first
thought of bolting, then settled that I
would do as I had always done—face it out.<a name="Page_171" id="Page_171"></a><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170"></a><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169"></a>
But I little knew what this meant, as will
presently be seen. I knew sufficient of the law
to forsee that I should be charged with trespassing;
with night poaching; with being in
illegal possession of fish; with illegally killing
and taking salmon; perhaps other counts
besides. But what I did <i>not</i> know was that I
should be charged, in addition, with being in
illegal possession of one hundred and twenty-nine
salmon and trout <i>during the close season</i>.</p>
<p>And this is how it came about. There had
been an agitation throughout the whole of the
Conservancy district. It was contended that
the fishing season extended too far into Autumn
by a fortnight—that by that time the fish
had begun to spawn. The old condition of
things had held for years, and the new Conservancy
bye-laws had only just come into
operation. And so I was trapped. The case
came on, and a great shoal of magistrates with it.
Two of them were personally interested, and
were charitable enough to retire from the Bench—they
pushed their chairs back about an inch
from the table. I pleaded guilty to all the<a name="Page_172" id="Page_172"></a>
charges except the last, and explained the case as
clearly as I could. The Conservancy solicitor,
who prosecuted, did then what he had never
done before. It was a bad case he said, but
added that I had never before been charged
with netting during "close-time," and had never
used lime or other wholesale methods of poisoning.
He pointed out, too, to the presiding
Justice that I always claimed to "poach
square"—at which all the young ones laughed.
He did not press for the heaviest penalty.
But this was quite unnecessary, as I got it
without. I never quite understood how they
made it up, but I was fined ninety-seven
pounds. I told the Chairman that I should
pay it "in kind," and went to "hard" for nine
months.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" class="newpg"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173"></a>
<div style="margin-left:10%;margin-right:10%;line-height:1em;">
<p class="center" style="font-weight: bold;font-size: 1em;padding-top:1em;padding-bottom:.1em;margin-right:10%;margin-left:10%;">
WORKS BY JOHN WATSON.</p>
<hr style="width: 30%;margin-top:.5em;margin-bottom:.06em;">
<hr style="width: 30%;margin-bottom:.05em;margin-top:.06em;">
<p class="center" style="font-weight: bold;font-size: 1.2em;margin-top:.8em;margin-bottom:.3em;">NATURE AND WOODCRAFT.</p>
<p class="center" style="line-height:1.5em;font-weight: normal;font-size: 1em;margin-top:0em;margin-bottom:.6em;">Crown 8vo, 5/.<br>
With Illustrations by G. E. <span class="smcap">Lodge</span>.</p>
<hr style="width: 10%;margin-bottom:.8em;margin-top:.5em;">
<p class="center" style="font-weight: normal;font-size: 1em;margin-top:.2em;margin-bottom:.05em;">LONDON: SMITH & INNES.</p>
<hr style="width: 80%;margin-top:1em;margin-bottom:1em;">
<p class="center" style="font-weight: bold;font-size: 1.2em;margin-top:.5em;margin-bottom:0.5em;">SYLVAN FOLK:</p>
<p class="center" style="line-height:1.5em;font-weight: normal;font-size: 1em;margin-top:0em;margin-bottom:.6em;"><span class="smcap">SKETCHES OF BIRD AND ANIMAL LIFE IN BRITAIN.</span><br>
Crown 8vo, 3/6.</p>
<hr style="width: 10%;margin-bottom:.8em;margin-top:.5em;">
<p class="center" style="font-weight: normal;font-size: 1em;margin-top:.2em;margin-bottom:.05em;">LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN.</p>
<hr style="width: 80%;margin-top:1em;margin-bottom:1em;">
<p class="center" style="font-weight: bold;font-size: 1.2em;margin-top:.5em;margin-bottom:0.5em;">BRITISH SPORTING FISHES.</p>
<p class="center" style="font-weight: normal;font-size: 1em;margin-top:0em;margin-bottom:.8em;">Crown 8vo, with Frontispiece, 3/6.</p>
<hr style="width: 10%;margin-bottom:.8em;margin-top:.5em;">
<p class="center" style="font-weight: normal;font-size: 1em;margin-top:.2em;margin-bottom:.05em;">LONDON: CHAPMAN & HALL.</p>
<hr style="width: 80%;margin-top:1em;margin-bottom:1em;">
<p class="center" style="font-weight: normal;font-style:italic;font-size: 1em;margin-top:0.5em;margin-bottom:.8em;">IN THE PRESS.</p>
<hr style="width: 10%;margin-bottom:.8em;margin-top:.5em;">
<p class="center" style="font-weight: bold;font-size: 1.2em;margin-top:.1em;margin-bottom:0em;">THE ANNALS OF A QUIET VALLEY.</p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" class="newpg"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174"></a>
<p class="center" style="font-weight: normal;font-style:italic;font-size: 1em;margin-top:0em;margin-bottom:.5em;">Crown 8vo, 286 pp., cloth, 3s. 6d.</p>
<p class="center" style="font-weight: bold;font-size: 2em;margin-top:0em;margin-bottom:0em;">SYLVAN FOLK:</p>
<p class="center" style="font-weight: bold;font-size: 1.2em;margin-top:0.5em;margin-bottom:.5em;padding-bottom:0em;">Sketches of Bird and Animal Life in Britain,</p>
<p class="center" style="font-weight: normal;font-size: .75em;margin-top:.1em;margin-bottom:0em;">BY</p>
<p class="center" style="font-weight: normal;font-size: 1.5em;margin-top:.3em;margin-bottom:0em;">JOHN WATSON, F.L.S.,</p>
<p class="center" style="font-weight: normal;font-style:italic;font-size: 1em;margin-top:0.5em;margin-bottom:.5em;">Author of "Nature and Woodcraft," etc.</p>
<hr style="width: 30%;margin-top:1.25em;margin-bottom:1.25em;">
<p class="center" style="font-weight: bold;font-size: 1em;margin-top:0.1em;margin-bottom:.5em;">NOTICES OF THE PRESS.</p>
<p class="blockquot">"Written by a born naturalist.... Characterised by that indefinable
something which distinguishes the observer of the fields and woods from the
mere book student."—<i>Daily News.</i></p>
<p class="blockquot">"It is this freshness, this out-door atmosphere, that gives its charm to these
sketches of bird and animal life, and that leads the reader along in fascinated
interest from the first to the last page."—<i>Literary World.</i></p>
<p class="blockquot">"May be placed on the same shelf with that of the greatest of all writers
on English rural life without any quarrel being incurred.... At once a
morally bracing and most instructive book."—<i>Christian Leader.</i></p>
<p class="blockquot">"He fully deserves the high compliment of being compared with Jefferies....
This beautiful book, in which a zoologist might find new facts, a
poet light, and any thoughtful reader an inspiration."—<i>Fishing Gazette.</i></p>
<p class="blockquot">"There is the same enthusiasm and sincerity that marked Jefferies' work.
Mr. Watson always writes like a man who has his eye on his subject. 'Nature
by Night' is a thoroughly charming prose idyl, every detail in which is obviously
taken at first hand from <a name="tn_png_177"></a><!--TN: Single quote changed to double quote after "Nature."-->Nature."—<i>Observer.</i></p>
<p class="blockquot">"Full of delicate description as enchanting as a fairy tale. Dull indeed
must be the reader who is insensible to its delightful charm.... Does the
increase of such books mean that we are tired of the civilisation of the streets,
and are ready to turn back for a while to the relics of a freer and wilder state?"—<i>Manchester
Examiner.</i></p>
<p class="blockquot">"After the laboured imitations of Jefferies, Mr. Watson's 'Sylvan Folk'
comes like a breath of sweet country air into the atmosphere of an emporium
of stuffed birds and calico flowers. A sympathetic, keen-eyed, worshipful observer
of Nature, Mr. Watson writes with the simplicity and directness
of a man who knows what he is about. There is not an uninteresting page in
'Sylvan Folk' from first to last."—<i>Echo.</i></p>
<p class="blockquot">"He knows how to interpret many of the innumerable signs and symbols
which are readily misunderstood, or altogether overlooked, by less careful
inquirers.... His descriptions are so fresh—they suggest so vividly the
idea of happy hours spent among attractive scenes in the open air—that they
will give genuine pleasure to everyone who reads them."—<i>Nature.</i></p>
<hr style="width: 40%;margin-top:.8em;margin-bottom:.8em;">
<p class="center blockquot"><span class="smcap">London</span>: T. FISHER UNWIN, <span class="smcap">Paternoster Square</span>, E.C.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" class="newpg"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175"></a>
<p class="center" style="font-weight: normal;font-style:italic;font-size: 1em;margin-top:0em;margin-bottom:.5em;">Crown 8vo, 302 pp., cloth, 3s. 6d.</p>
<p class="center" style="font-weight: bold;font-size: 2em;margin-top:0em;margin-bottom:0em;">NATURE AND WOODCRAFT</p>
<p class="center" style="font-weight: normal;font-size: .75em;margin-top:.1em;margin-bottom:0em;">BY</p>
<p class="center" style="font-weight: normal;font-size: 1.5em;margin-top:.3em;margin-bottom:0em;">JOHN WATSON, F.L.S.,</p>
<p class="center" style="font-weight: normal;font-style:italic;font-size: 1em;margin-top:0.5em;margin-bottom:.5em;">Author of "Sylvan Folk," &c.</p>
<hr style="width: 30%;margin-top:1.25em;margin-bottom:1.25em;">
<p class="center" style="font-weight: bold;font-size: 1em;margin-top:0.1em;margin-bottom:.5em;">NOTICES OF THE PRESS.</p>
<p class="blockquot">"A delightfully fresh and enjoyable book. Those who know the open air
and the life of animated nature will enjoy the skill with which Mr. Watson
translates its aspects and its actions into literary expression. Those who dwell
in cities will enjoy it because the papers induce the illusion that one is in the
country."—<i>Scotsman.</i></p>
<p class="blockquot">"Written with real ability as well as adequate knowledge. On every page
there is evidence of genuine though never paraded enthusiasm for the calm
delights of the country. Mr. Watson writes in a clear and attractive manner,
and one, moreover, around which an imaginative glamour rests."—<i>Leeds Mercury.</i></p>
<p class="blockquot">"Mr. Watson writes effectively, from the accumulations of years of close
observation of nature. Since the death of Mr. Jefferies few living writers can
compete with him in this particular path of literature."—<i>Bookseller.</i></p>
<p class="blockquot">"This is the best <a name="tn_png_178"></a><!--TN: "witten" changed to "written"-->written and most valuable of Mr. Watson's books. Best of
all are his chapters on the old Statesman theory of life in the North."—<i>Academy.</i></p>
<p class="blockquot">"Nothing can be better than all those chapters which describe life among
the Cumbrian mountains; this is Mr. Watson's real theme, and he deserves
all the thanks we can give him for executing it with such true feeling."—<i>Manchester
Guardian.</i></p>
<p class="blockquot">"Mr. Watson's volume 'Nature and Woodcraft' deserves a hearty welcome,
and will doubtless get it. He writes with a grace and fluency that make his
book hard to leave."—<i>Yorkshire Post.</i></p>
<p class="blockquot">"Many admirers of Richard Jefferies will be glad to see that one still lives
who can write so charmingly of nature and woodcraft."—<i>Perthshire Advertiser.</i></p>
<p class="blockquot">"As an observer pure and simple, and as a bright and pleasing recorder,
Mr. Watson can hold his own with anybody; and his range is sufficiently
extensive to secure, in addition to all other charms, the charm of variety."—<i>Manchester
Examiner.</i></p>
<div style="border: dashed 1px;margin-left:10%;margin-right:10%;margin-top:2em;">
<div style="margin-left:10%;margin-right:10%;">
<h2 style="padding-top:.75em;">Transcriber's Note</h2>
<p>Illustrations have been moved near the relevant section of the text.</p>
<p>Page numbers are documented as links within the source code.</p>
<p>Inconsistencies have been retained in hyphenation and grammar, except
where indicated in the list below.</p>
<p>Here is a list of the minor typographical corrections made:</p>
<div style="margin-left:15%;margin-right:15%;">
<ul>
<li><a href="#tn_png_18">"curiouly" changed to "curiously"</a></li>
<li><a href="#tn_png_22">Period added after "2"</a></li>
<li><a href="#tn_png_25">"the the" changed to "the"</a></li>
<li><a href="#tn_png_25a">"avourable" changed to "favourable"</a></li>
<li><a href="#tn_png_35">Period moved from after "Chapter" to after "3"</a></li>
<li><a href="#tn_png_41">"sucseeded" changed to "succeeded"</a></li>
<li><a href="#tn_png_42">"succesfully" changed to "successfully"</a></li>
<li><a href="#tn_png_48">"dfficult" changed to "difficult"</a></li>
<li><a href="#tn_png_68">Period added after "apart"</a></li>
<li><a href="#tn_png_72">Period added after "day"</a></li>
<li><a href="#tn_png_95">"croocked" changed to "crooked"</a></li>
<li><a href="#tn_png_117">"difficut" changed to "difficult"</a></li>
<li><a href="#tn_png_119">"is is" changed to "is"</a></li>
<li><a href="#tn_png_127">"an" changed to "and"</a></li>
<li><a href="#tn_png_127a">"ha" changed to "has"</a></li>
<li><a href="#tn_png_127b">"troub" changed to "trouble"</a></li>
<li><a href="#tn_png_129">"alwasy" changed to "always"</a></li>
<li><a href="#tn_png_140">Comma removed after "Bench"</a></li>
<li><a href="#tn_png_147">"its" changed to "it's"</a></li>
<li><a href="#tn_png_162">"fnrther" changed to "further"</a></li>
<li><a href="#tn_png_177">Single quote changed to double quote after "Nature."</a></li>
<li><a href="#tn_png_178">"witten" changed to "written"</a></li>
</ul>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<pre>
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