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Show WHAT I KNOW ABOUT GAME. It is estimated that about 37 tons of powder and shot are annually fired away in this State by amateur sportsmen, and that the market cash value of game killed is about $3.36. The game which abounds in this vicinity is woodcock, partridge and duck. The woodcock resembles a big sweet potato stuck up on a pair of knitting-needles. Its tail is as short as a benediction, and its bill is as long a plumber's. Its legs resemble a ballet dancer's, and are about as much exposed to the weather. It is quicker than a rat trap, and will annihilate space as rapidly as anything that wears feathers. If I were going to shoot a woodcock, I should fire off the gun, then scare up the bird, and trust to luck for it to fly into the charge and be killed. Nothing but a rifle that is loaded with lightning can overtake a woodcock. They being a sort of aristocratic bird, the amateur lets it severely alone. The partridge is as common as the croup or measles, though it is much harder to catch. It is like the Greenback party to this country, inasmuch as there is not really any such thing. Our partridges are grouse, and we call them partridges simply because they are something else. In the absence of a better reason you'll find this a good one. The alleged partridge is upholstered in feathers, and though not as gaudy a looking bird as a Sunday bonnet, still it always looks neatly dressed. They are a sort of a commercial traveler, belonging to the class of "drummers." They have a pair of ears about 50 horse-powers each and they can hear a noise exactly two minutes before it is made. Their eyes discount Lord Ross' telescope, and they can see around a corner faster than a boy who has run away from school. They always have their trunk packed, like a Methodist minister, and are ready to move at a moment's warning. If I could live long enough to shoot an alleged partridge, the wandering Jew would be a creeping infant in comparison to me. I have pointed my gun at a great many partridges, but before I decided to fire the bird was just crossing the county-line. When the partridge flies he goes through the air with a whirr, that resembles the sound of a twelve-penny nail thrown from a sling, when you have stolen the nail and want to throw it away before you get found out. It is said a partridge goes through the air so rapidly, that it is so hot when it alights, that you cannot put your hand on it. I will not vouch for the hot part of the story, but I will take my oath, if called upon, that you can't put your hand on it. My personal views of the partridge have always been when it was going directly from me, and from those brief and cursory glimpses, I am of the opinion that their expression is rather stern. - Belfast Journal. |