Hark to that whipping sound so different from the rush of the rising pheasant or the drumming flight of the partridge! I cannot see the bird, but I know it is a woodcock.

This must be one of his favourite haunts, for I perceive the tracks of his feet and the perforations of his bill in every direction on the black mud around.

Mark! again.

A second is sprung, and as he flits between the naked alders a snap-shot stops his career.

I now emerge at the farther end, just where the trees are thinner than elsewhere.