Shot there was in plenty--a whole tobacco-pipe bowl full, carefully
measured out of the old yellow canvas money-bag that did for a shot
belt. A starling could be knocked off the chimney with this charge
easily, and so could a blackbird roosting in a bush at night. But a
woodpigeon nearly thirty yards distant was another matter; for the old
folk (and the birdkeepers too) said that their quills were so hard the
shot would glance aside unless it came with great force. Very likely the
pigeon would escape, and all the rabbits in the buries would be too
frightened to come out at all.

A beautiful bird he was on the bough, perched well in view and clearly
defined against the sky behind; and my eye travelled along the groove on
the breech and up the barrel, and so to the sight and across to him; and
the finger, which always would keep time with the eye, pulled at the
trigger.

A mere puff of a report, and then a desperate fluttering in the tree and
a cloud of white feathers floating above the hedge, and a heavy fall
among the bushes. He was down, and Orion's spaniel (that came racing
like mad from the rickyard the instant he heard the discharge) had him
in a moment. Orion followed quickly. Then the shepherd came up, rather
stiff on his legs from rheumatism, and stepped the distance, declaring
it was thirty yards good; after which we all walked home in triumph.

Molly the dairymaid came a little way from the rickyard, and said she
would pluck the pigeon that very night after work. She was always ready
to do anything for us boys; and we could never quite make out why they
scolded her so for an idle hussy indoors. It seemed so unjust. Looking
back, I recollect she had very beautiful brown eyes.