Which
pretty nearly corresponds to the guinea pig, but is not so ferocious;
and the English hare, which is first cousin to our molly cottontail;
and the English pheasant - but particularly the pheasant.
There was great excitement while we were in England concerning the
pheasants. Either the pheasants were preying on the mangel-wurzels
or the mangel-wurzels were preying on the pheasants. At any rate
it had something to do with the Land Bill - practically everything
that happens in England has something to do with the Land Bill - and
Lloyd George was in a free state of perspiration over it; and the
papers were full of it and altogether there was a great pother
over it.
We saw pheasants by the score. We saw them first from the windows
of our railroad carriage - big, beautiful birds nearly as large as
barnyard fowls and as tame, feeding in the bare cabbage patches,
regardless of the train chugging by not thirty yards away; and
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.
