I Have Never Shot Pheasants; But, Having Seen Them In Their Free State As Above Described, And Having In My Youth Collected Postage Stamps Intermittently, I Should Say, Speaking Offhand, That Of The Two Pursuits Postage-Stamp Collecting Is Infinitely The More Exciting And Dangerous.

Through the closed season the keepers mind the pheasants, protecting them from poachers and feeding them on selected grain;

But a day comes in October when the hunters go forth and take their stands at spaced intervals along a cleared aisle flanking the woods; then the beaters dive into the woods from the opposite side, and when the tame and trusting creatures come clustering about their feet expecting provender the beaters scare them up, by waving their umbrellas at them, I think, and the pheasants go rocketing into the air - rocketing is the correct sporting term - go rocketing into the air like a flock of Sunday supplements; and the gallant gunner downs them in great multitudes, always taking due care to avoid mussing his clothes. For after all the main question is not "What did he kill?" but "How does he look?"

At that, I hold no brief for the pheasant - except when served with breadcrumb dressing and currant jelly he is no friend of mine. It ill becomes Americans, with our own record behind us, to chide other people for the senseless murder of wild things; and besides, speaking personally, I have a reasonably open mind on the subject of wild-game shooting. Myself, I shot a wild duck once.

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