( 310 )

HEDGE-POPPING.

UNDERSTAND by the above heading the small sport of those who are fond of shooting, but own no preserves, and take out no licence. They are by no means poachers, but follow up a blackbird with an interest unmarred by envy of the great guns; not but that they sometimes -in the sudden heat of discovery-kill a partridge, pheasant, or a hare, but, as a rule, they do not affect such game, but aim at small results, which they pursue with spirits and success worthy of a tiger-hunt. All birds are fair game to them, with the exception of robins, which are sacred, and rooks, which enjoy a special privilege of destruction, and may not be killed, except young. I am not sure whether a true hedge-popper would kill a wren; I hardly think he would. Possibly her supposed relationship to cock-robin is a protection to this little bird. Nor would he harm an owl or a swallow. But, with these exceptions,

Its Recommendations.

311

the hedge-popper lets fly at anything within his reach. And why should he be refused a chronicler? Battues are reported in the Times; the accounts of the moors are published with a business-like money-article sort of air, some weeks before the 12th of August; the judges who go our circuits, and the magistrates who remain at home, are continually engaged in adjudicating between poachers and sportsmen ; half the conversation at the squire's table is about game; the Houses of Parliament are agitated by proposals for the conviction of men who may be suspected of having pheasants in their pockets; the governors and the governed are equally bitter and complaining about preserves. Why, then, should the humble hedge-popper, who is happier in his "sport" than the largest game-owner in the country, be unnoticed? He is content to enjoy himself without protection; he needs no keepers to set up at night and have their skulls cracked; he asks for no army of beaters and markers; he needs no expensive outfit; he does not buy dogs at fifty guineas the brace; he is not plagued with a kennel, abused by tenants, nor covered with obloquy by the Radical journals. And yet he can perfect himself in all that distinguishes a true sportsman. He can shoot well-at least he

ought to do so, for he is sharply tested by the specialties and variety of his sport; he must learn to be patient; he sees and should remember the habits of birds; he finds abundant exercise in the pursuit of his amusement, and wastes no money on its artificial support.

Who does not remember the first bird he shot? I do it was a tomtit on an appletree. One afternoon, when I was a naughty little chit in a pinafore, I got possession of a horse-pistol which had been hanging up over the kitchen mantelshelf till it was as rusty as an old rat-trap. After some experimental flashes in the pan, I loaded it, feeling rather guilty and doubtful, with a handful of pease; and seeing cook safely occupied with her own concerns, sallied forth. Then a naughty thought suddenly came into my head. Should I shoot the cat? the temptation was almost irresistible; she sat on a low wall, with her eyes shut, licking the sunshine off her paws. Would it hurt her? Probably. Probably. She was a yard off. Would it make much noise? I should think so, cat and all. Would she recover, and tell cook? What should I do with the body, if immediately successful? It was too rash a venture, all things considered; but to this day

she has no idea what a narrow shave it was. I passed on there was a small apple-tree close by, and a tomtit fidgeting about among its upper twigs. Now, then. With the pistol held in my two hands, both arms extended, head thrown back, and teeth shut, I made a demonstration which at least ought to have arrested his attention. Not a bit-he fussed on. Thrice did I cover him with my piece; as often did it miss fire; but the fourth time Whether it was from the noise or the pease, or both, is uncertain, but he died. Pussy reached the kitchen-door with a spang; cook rushed out; and I, flinging down the pistol, which smoked like a squib, and clutching my prey, scampered off to a particular lair of my own in the shrubbery, where I might let the first gush of success relieve itself without interruption. That exploit is one of the clearest in my memory, and is, I believe, as deeply cut in the virgin surface of that material, as many a capital-lettered crisis of my being.

How confused a record we have of those years when life's waggon got on the dusty level road, when one day was like another, as we toiled on with tedious speed! A man's memory becomes at last like a long travelled letter,

314

Let me look kindly back.

thick with blotted impress, struck hastily on, as he passed from post to post, covered with confused significance. Whereas of the palmy days of youth But, heigho! Let us to hedge-popping.

I believe that most famous "shots" have been hedge-poppers in their time, and, moreover, that some of their pleasantest reminiscences are of early days, when society did not notice their pretensions. Let me try and touch, if it may be, the memories of some bygone days in the respectable bosoms of elderly gentlemen who read these words. I am grey now, and have grave work enough to do, but when I see a boy creeping along under a hedge, with his gun and ears full-cock, I think of the time when my waist was less than it is, and I tore holes in my jacket, stalking the smallest game. Let me look kindly back, and where I see a scene or phase of hedge-popping, put it down here in harmless words.

The young hedge-popper begins almost invariably in the snow or among the gooseberrybushes. A small boy frequents these bushes when the fruit is ripe, creeping about and looking beneath the low branches, with, of course, far more ease than a man; and there