THE LOAFER ON THE SHOOT.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2279, 22 July 1881, Page 3

THE LOAFER ON THE SHOOT.

It was a long standing engagement of mine that 1 was to go shooting, in accordance with a kind invitation of the Messrs Birdling. I was to be accompanied by Mr Babnud, an old soldier in more ways than one, and a man who has fought with much gallantry on the plains of Canterbury ever since military tactics were first instituted in this country. His soldiering yarns were immense, more especially his experiences when he became an orderly. But I must get away as quick as possible out of Christchurch, which, owing to Babnud keep ing us waiting three-quarters of an hour while he was finishing off a friend at euchre in his back parlor, we did not do on the occasion under notice. With his usual cleverness Mr B. had brought in as an addition to the party Mr E. Canning, a relative, I believe, of the great statesman of that name, and who proved a most genial mate. Mr Canning was the fortunate possessor of a most comfortable waggonette and a good pair of horses. This was bully for us, and after the wait above alluded to wo got well away in fair time, accompanied by three dogs, including the renowned yachting quadruped Jack and two others of the “smell’’ genus, as the Americans call them. We spun—though none of us spinsters, but it’s a good sporting phrase—merrily up to Judge’s and partook of a stimulantic 0.K.,

“For Judge is a Judge, And a good Judge too.” We then skirted the lake as far as “ old Jack’s.” Jack is Cobb and Co.'s caretaker, and as good a man as ever put harness on a coach horse. He observed, after taking the oath, that we had better be careful of the road round by Kaituna, as there was a culvert broken. He could not tell us quite where, but it was marked somewhere. It was, for the time of year, a nice warm night, and wo got on fine till we approached the supposed whereabout* of the culvert. Presently wo drove into a heap of earth going right across the road. It was hardly noticeable by the light of the lamps, but wo decided to look out and “go slow.” It was lucky we did, as within a few yards was a yawning chasm the whole width of the road. Had it not been for Old Jack’s tip we should have had a proper smash. We were not sure how to get on, when, like the conscience-stricken Lord Marmion riding his red roan into the enchanted ground by night, we became aware of the presence of a phantom-looking cavalier looming through the darkness. This turned out to be Mr Fred Birdling, who rode ahead as pilot for the rest of the way. I thought to myself, as we got into the good road again, that the Lake road was not a very gay place for a strange charioteer on a dark night. But wo got to the station at last, and bad a tremendous tea. It was after this repast that Babnud first developed his really great talent as a euchre player. The joker seemed to skip into his hand as regularly as the cards were dealt, while the two bowers were generally found anchored in close proximity to the two of spades, which plays up so fatally with the best hands. Mr E. was indeed a skilled artist, and though I would not for worlds impute any wicked motives to him, yet I trust he will forgive mo when I say he reminded me, during a whole scries of desperate contests, of the answer of one gambler to another who wanted to know where all the aoes had gone—“ Well, if you must know,” said his opponent, “ you have one in your pocket and I have three up my sleeve.” But I must pass on the euchre, except that if any “ constant reader ” fancies himself the man and the money can be heard of by applying to the boy 1 1 the Pbesb office. The sport commenced at an early hour next morning, and I was had first thing by old Babnud, who appeared to have been up for hours. He came and called on me to hear the “zeeking ” of some Paradise ducks, which apparently were chanting in close proximity to the house. 1 bounded out of bed, and slipping my trousers on and two cartridges into my gun, went outside in company with Babnud,"gun in hand. Sure enough there they were, just under the inside of thegorse hedge, about sixty yards from the house, and within five of tho hedge. “ That’s my sort of shot, Bub,” I said, “ Come round on the outside.” He followed, and when in tho act of taking the four ducks in a heap at about eight yards distance. Bab said, “ Hold on. Loafer; they are all tame ones,” and I beat a hastened retreat, to bo chaffed all day long by the artful Bab, who had spotted the tame paradise ducks somehow the evening previous. It was a lovely day, and we went to the sandhills, at the entrance, if one call it one, of Lake Forsyth. On the way thither Bab, who was burning to shoot something, fired at some gulls, and started up a mob of ducks that we might have got at. They were not seen again. We then all separated for a while, and prowled about in places. Canning disappeared up a gully, and returned with a pair of rabbits. There were some white birds swimming down the Lake, at which Canning and Babnud got shooting with a carbine, having previously c-hot a few with guns, and driven them cut of range. Canning made one fine shot, breaking tho wing of a bird at 500 yards with the carbine. In the afternoon we drove down the Lake Shore, and shot a few dotterel, and having picked a place for the night’s duck shooting, drove back to Wascoe’s accommodation house. Mr Wascoe is a very amusing party, and his description of the class of sportsmen that visit the Lake as a rule was very interesting. “ They bring with them,” said Mr W., “ from 100 to 150 cartridges for one day, and they blaze at everything within a quarter of a mile.” On being told that such a course does not result in a good bag, their reply is always tho same : “ Well, it’s our only day’s sport at this game in the whole year, and there’s no use in bringing any cartridges back, so we’re bound to fire them all away.” “And fire them they certainly do.” As Mr Wascoe had predicted, the weather was too fine for good duck shooting, but we made a very fair bag in tho gloaming, and returned and killed our ducks over again while smoking over a blazing flro of logs, and what a jolly thing is a good log fire! The following day I was again roused by Bab singing tho following versicle, which I presume was original:—

“ From off the running rivulet the icy chain is thawed. And the flutter of the winglet of the pigeon ia abroad; The quacklet of the ducklet in the brooklet we can hear, And the rootlet of the piglet will presently appear.” It had been arranged wo were to shoot pheasants, and we started on foot for a long day. A short delay occurred at the start from the fact that the four tame Paradise ducks displayed a wish to accompany us —in fact, followed us about a quarter of a mile down the paddock. We ascended hill after hill, but with much the same result as the famous army of Napoleon under similar circumstances. We only saw two, which we muffed, and so, as old Pepy’a would say, to lunch. More hill climbing followed,but no more long tails were to bo seen. We, however, killed a couple of wild pigs, which was real sport. We had now to descend, and it was a rough shop. Coming down, Fred Birdling, who is a wonder at hill work, slipped and sprained his ankle. I don’t know how ho got down, but wo had to send for a trap and drive him homo. The boys went shooting ducks in the evening, and brought up a fair bag. Next day Fred went down to Akaroa to pet bis ankle attended to, and we went after dotterel, but the dotterel ia a wary bird, and seems to know how far a gun will carry as well as you do. We shot a few, but had a good time in the evening, making a good bag of swamp hens, grey and Paradise duck. Coming homo we lost our way, and I lost stimulants for the whole party, betting wo wore going all right. Wo were, at the time, travelling in exactly the opposite direction. During the day Rab and Canning had a lot of shooting at the swans with the carbine, but they are not so easy to hit as they seem. The Lake of Ellesmere is a pretty place, but I can tell you something else it is. It’s very wet. It’s a deceitful shop. You camp on a place you think is perfectly dry, and you lie down to await the advent of the wily duck, and in less than five minutes you are soaked. It came through a waterproof horse cover I was camped on one night, and I lost all confidence in such goods for the Lake. We drove to Little River to shoot pheasants, but they wore all in the bush, and I think only one of the party saw one. One gentleman, on whoso grounds I believe there ore heaps of pheasants, was very much annoyed at our want of success

1“ Come up, boy*," he said, "any evening, and Ell show you where they roost. I don’t want you to be euchred after coming all this way.” Ferns are, I will here remark, very pretty in a box, but they are not so on. the mountain side. They rise to the height of a man’s chin. They wreath round his legs ; they, in conjunction with log* artfully concealed in their interstices, throw a man down and drench him. He falleth and, eke, he sweareth like old boots. We added to the bag of ducks in the evening, and I lost drink* again to Bab, backing my bag against his. Bab and Canning left next day, which reduced the shcotista to Willy and G. Birdling and myself. It poured with rain, but wa got some ducks in the evening. The following day blowing a heavy pale of wind, we went down on the Lake with every hope of making a good bag. There were several others thought the same, and the fusillade wss almost continuous. One man caused great amusement by the imprecation* he piled on his dog. We could hear him invoking perdition on the unfortunate retriever half a mile off. He was a gentleman with a most extraordinary gift of language I ever listened to, and I’ve heard a good many proficients too. I must tell you about our decoys. We always took some of the duck* wo had shot down for decoys, a course which was attended with much success. On thi* occasion wo forgot the string and sticks to set them up with. Thus it was they were in a position a duck assume* when diving for it* food, tail upwards. It was a failure. I merely mention tha fact for the information of sportsman. We got a fair bag of ducks, but the walk back in a hurricane of wind and rain was a caution. George Birdling was out by himself and did well, killing two swan at one shot, and bagging several spoonbill and grey duck. On the Sunday we rode down to the beach and a tremendous sea was breaking on the shore, A fine sight. I had to leave on the following day and returned with my old friend Joe McParlane on the coach. Next time I go up I am promised a turn at the wild cattle. I shall take Mr Canning if he will go, and the festive Bab. They can hit a wild bull at 800 yards, which I fancy is the nearest I should care about getting to them. The whole trip was eno of the pleasantest X have ever had in the course of a long experience.