At another I as firmly resolved to shoot the moment the snipe rose
before he could begin to twist. But some unforeseen circumstance always
interfered with the execution of these resolutions.
Now the snipe got up unexpectedly right under foot; now one rose thirty
yards ahead; now he towered straight up, forced to do so by the tall
willows; and occasionally four or five rising together and calling
'sceap, sceap' in as many different directions, made me hesitate at
which to aim. The continual dwelling upon the problem rendered me
nervous, so that I scarcely knew when I pulled the trigger.
But one day, in passing this gateway, which was a long distance from the
particular water-meadows where I had practised, and not thinking of
snipes, suddenly one got up, and with a loud 'sceap' darted over the
gate. The long slender gun--the old single-barrel--came to the shoulder
instinctively, without premeditation, and the snipe fell.
Coming now to the brook, which was broad and bordered by a hedge on the
opposite side, I held Orion's gun while he leaped over. The bank was
steep and awkward, but he had planned his leap so as to alight just
where he could at once grasp an ash branch and so save himself from
falling back into the water. He could not, however, stay suspended
there, but had to scramble over the hedge, and then called for his gun.
I leaned mine against a hollow withy pollard, and called 'ready.
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