them turned and came back at a most fearful pace, many so high as to be
almost out of shot.

For the next three-quarters of an hour or more--as I think I have
explained, the beat was a very long one--I had such covert shooting as
I suppose I shall never see again. High above those shrieking trees,
or over the lake to my left, flashed the wind-driven pheasants in an
endless procession. Oddly enough, I found that this wild work suited me,
for as time went on and the pheasants grew more and more impossible, I
shot better and better. One after another down they came far behind me
with a crash in the brushwood or a splash in the lake, till the
guns grew almost too hot to hold. There were so many of them that I
discovered I could pick my shots; also that nine out of ten were caught
by the wind and curved at a certain angle, and that the time to fire was
just before they took the curve. The excitement was great and the
sport splendid, as anyone will testify who has shot December pheasants
breaking back over the covert and in a tearing gale. Van Koop also
was doing very well, but the guns in front got comparatively little
shooting. They were forced to stand there, poor fellows, and watch our
performance from afar.

As the thing drew towards an end the birds came thicker and thicker, and
I shot, as I have said, better and better. This may be judged from the
fact that, notwithstanding their height and tremendous pace, I killed
my last thirty pheasants with thirty-five cartridges. The final bird
of all, a splendid cock, appeared by himself out of nothingness when we
thought that all was done. I think it must have been flushed from the
covert on the hill, or been turned back just as it reached it by the
resistless strength of the storm. Over it came, so high above us that it
looked quite small in the dark snow-scud.