Later we saw them again at still closer range as we strolled along
the haw-and-holly-lined roads of the wonderful southern counties.
They would scuttle on ahead of us, weaving in and out of the
hedgerows; and finally, when we insisted on it and flung pebbles
at them to emphasize our desires, they would get up, with a great
drumming of wings and a fine comet-like display of flowing
tailfeathers on the part of the cock birds, and go booming away
to what passes in Sussex and Kent for dense cover - meaning by that
thickets such as you may find in the upper end of Central Park.
They say King George is one of the best pheasant-shots in England.
He also collects postage stamps when not engaged in his regular
regal duties, such as laying cornerstones for new workhouses and
receiving presentation addresses from charity children. 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. He was
not flying at the time. He was, as the stockword goes, setting.
I had no self-reproaches afterward however. As between that duck
and myself I regarded it as an even break - as fair for one as for
the other - because at the moment I myself was, as we say, setting
too. But if, in the interests of true sportsmanship, they must
have those annual massacres I certainly should admire to see what
execution a picked half dozen of American quail hunters, used to
snap-shooting in the cane jungles and brier patches of Georgia and
Arkansas, could accomplish among English pheasants, until such
time as their consciences mastered them and they desisted from
slaughter!
Be that as it may, pheasant shooting is the last word in the English
sporting calendar. It is a sport strictly for the gentry. Except
in the capacity of innocent bystanders the lower orders do not
share in it. It is much too good for them; besides, they could
not maintain the correct wardrobe for it. The classes derive one
substantial benefit from the institution however. The sporting
instinct of the landed Englishman has led to the enactment of laws
under which an ordinary person goes smack to jail if he is caught
sequestrating a clandestine pheasant bird; but it does not militate
against the landowner's peddling off his game after he has destroyed
it. British thrift comes in here. And so in carload lots it is
sold to the marketmen. The result is that in the fall of the year
pheasants are cheaper than chickens; and any person who can afford
poultry on his dinner table can afford pheasants.
The Continental hunter makes an even more spectacular appearance
than his British brother. No self-respecting German or French
sportsman would think of faring forth after the incarnate brown
hare or the ferocious wood pigeon unless he had on a green hat
with a feather in it; and a green suit to match the hat; and swung
about his neck with a cord a natty fur muff to keep his hands in
between shots; and a swivel chair to sit in while waiting for the
wild boar to come along and be bowled over.
Being hunted with a swivel chair is what makes the German wild
boar wild. On occasion, also, the hunter wears, suspended from
his belt, a cute little hanger like a sawed-off saber, with which
to cut the throats of his spoil. Then, when it has spoiled some
more, they will serve it at a French restaurant.
It was our fortune to be in France on the famous and ever-memorable
occasion when the official stag of the French Republic met a tragic
and untimely end, under circumstances acutely distressing to all
who believe in the divinity bestowed prerogatives of the nobility.
The Paris edition of the Herald printed the lamentable tale on its
front page and I clipped the account. I offer it here in exact
reproduction, including the headline:
HUNTING INCIDENT SAID TO BE DUE TO CONSPIRACY
Further details are given in this morning's Figaro of the incident
between Prince Murat and M. Dauchis, the mayor of Saint-Felix,
near Clermont, which was briefly reported in yesterday's Herald.
A regular conspiracy was organized by M. Dauchis, it is alleged,
in order to secure the stag Prince Murat and Comte de Valon were
hunting in the forest of La Neuville-en-Hetz.
