whins and bracken rose, just out of range, a covey of quite lightcoloured partridges. The gun on the right was on rather higher ground than the rest of us, and could see what was happening better than we could. He shouted that they were very queerlooking birds. We carefully marked and followed them into some turnips, where three or four of them were killed. Unfortunately it was a very wet day; the birds were wet and draggled, and through some carelessness these eccentricities were not separated from the rest of the bag at the end of the day. In consequence none of these strangely-coloured birds were stuffed, which was a great pity. It is not a very uncommon occurrence to see one light-hued or even white partridge in a covey; but that seven or eight light fawn-coloured ones-as these proved to be-should be together, and not an ordinary dark bird among them, is a circumstance which I have neither before nor since heard of.

While on the subject of colour freaks' let me mention another occurrence for which I have never been able to account. Last year I received a letter from a gentleman who knows more about partridges and their habits than most people, saying that while driving through the fields near my house he noticed in a covey of birds close to the road two absolutely black ones. He entreated me to come back and pursue them at once. I was able to do so, and, securing the assistance of an active and accurately-shooting friend, spent the next few days harassing every covey on the estate. I verily believe we saw every lot thereon, but never a black partridge among them. The explanation must be, I fancy, that the birds my correspondent noticed had been dusting' themselves in some of the soot which is put on the land in that part of the world for agricultural purposes. And yet the writer of the letter said he spent some time watching those particular birds, and was confident they were totally different from any he had ever seen.

However, whether partridges be ordinary of hue, fawncoloured, white, or black, one and all they should be held in high honour and esteem by every one, be he sportsman or epicure; for no creature, during his proper season, adds more to the pleasures of gunner and gourmet than the Little Brown Bird.'

AT a popular fixture of the Devon and Somerset staghounds, it may be safely said that only a small percentage of the several hundreds present sufficiently realise or appreciate the importance of the harbourer and his craft. Owing to the fact that the opening and several subsequent meets of the famous West Country pack take place at the height of the holiday season, it is scarcely to be wondered that they attract crowds of strangers from all quarters. Many of these Nimrods, after ten days' or a fortnight's hunting at the beginning of August, depart, feeling themselves entitled to give an opinion as to the merits or otherwise of wild stag hunting. That their ideas on the subject are sometimes a bit hazy may be gathered from the fact that the writer once heard one of these sportsmen describe the harbourer as the harbour master;' he further proceeded to enlighten his audience with graphic details that it is the custom of this functionary to enter the coverts at night with a lanthorn, and find a sleeping deer in order that he might inform the huntsman next morning where to look for him.

For the benefit of those who have not had much practical experience, it may be as well to remark that stag hunting on Exmoor begins in the early part of August and lasts until the

But it

second week in October, when hind hunting commences. is not only necessary that both stag and hind should be hunted in their proper season, but also that each should be above a certain age. This varies in the male and female; the stag being considered fit to hunt, or warrantable, when he is five years old and upwards, the hind when she is over three years. According to West Country theory, a five-year-old stag should carry a 'head,' as the horns are termed, of nine points, comprised of 'brow,' 'bay,' and 'tray' antlers with two points above the 'tray' on one side, and 'brow' and tray' with two points 'on top' on the other side. But it is not with any degree of certainty that the age of a stag can be reckoned by the appearance of his horns alone, owing to accidents and other causes, and it is his footprint or slot that the harbourer mainly relies on to tell a warrantable deer.

Deer feed almost exclusively at night, returning to the coverts to sleep during the day. When it is remembered that these coverts are sometimes thousands of acres in extent, consisting often of a dense undergrowth of scrub, oak, and bushes, it will be seen that it would be well-nigh impossible to find at haphazard a warrantable deer. If the whole pack were used to draw the covert, the probability is that half-a-dozen might be roused and the pack split up and divide, and to avoid this it is the harbourer's business to find where a stag has his lair or bed, and to inform the huntsman as near as possible where to draw for him. Two or three couple of hounds, termed 'tufters,' are chosen from the pack, and used to rouse and force him to break covert. When he does so the 'tufters' are stopped, and the whole pack--which has been temporarily kennelled in some adjoining farm—is brought up and laid on his foil. A good harbourer will, of course, know the general lie of the deer, the fields they use' (or feed in), and the 'racks' by which they enter and leave them. His work practically commences on the day before the meet, when he goes out to dout tracks '-or, in other words, to obliterate all the old slots of the deer entering or leaving the covert where he knows they are in the habit of lying up during the day.

This, needless to say, is a most important piece of work, involving many a mile of walking and careful scrutiny, and, if not done thoroughly, will add greatly to his difficulties of harbouring on the morrow.

The old tracks 'douted' to his satisfaction, he then knows that all fresh ones will tell their own tale. And now let us accompany him on one of his rounds, which for illustration shall

be amid the great coverts and sylvan combes of the Quantock Hills in West Somerset.

The September day is just breaking as, after a hurried cup of coffee, we step out into the keen morning air. Around us hangs the thickest of white mists, and the dripping from the trees testifies to the heavy dew that has been falling all night, which, however, will help us later on when slotting. A sharp walk of a couple of miles brings us on to a rough track that winds up the southern slopes of the hills. On either side stretches the open moor, though the fog is too dense to enable us to see more than a few yards. Occasionally it breaks a little, driven before the light morning breeze, and then rolls up from the combes below and envelops us in denser volumes than ever.

Of sound there is but little to break the silence, save the occasional bleat of a hardy little Exmoor sheep or the cry of the heath-poult to his grey-robed hen. Leaving the main track, we strike out across the heather by a sheep walk, keeping somewhat to the left of 'Will's Neck,' the highest point on the Quantocks. Suddenly my old friend pulls up sharp, at a spot where another sheep run crosses ours at right angles, and points with his ash stick to the ground at his feet. 'There's deer been along here this morning,' he observes, but they be hinds and no good to us to-day; then with the end of his stick he traces out the hardly perceptible impressions of the slots on the turf, though a few yards further on, where the grass is shorter and the dew lies heavy, the tracks appear more plain.

There were three or four of them, and that one with slightly rounder print is probably a young male. As a rule there is a distinct difference between the slots of the stag and hind, those of the former being larger and rounder than the latter, and the harbourer is generally able to distinguish at a glance to which sex they belong. In an old stag this difference is very marked, as the toes are wide apart and the heel broad. However, we have no time to lose, so hurry on. The fog is still thick in places, though the sun is slowly but surely getting the better of it, and there is every promise of a scorching hot day. Presently we again come to a standstill as the harbourer's quick ears have detected something moving on the hillside away to the right, but it turns out to be only a small herd of shaggy forest ponies walking leisurely along in Indian file, who stand still a few seconds to gaze at us and then disappear in the mist.

Another mile or so across the moor, and we arrive at a high bank enclosing a rough bit of pasture land plentifully patched