And for
each failure to drop his bird he had some explanation or apology ready on
his lips. Now he was striding along in front of his host, chattering
happily over his shoulder, but obviously on the look-out for some belated
rabbit or woodpigeon that might haply be secured as an eleventh-hour
addition to his bag. As they passed the edge of a small copse a large
bird rose from the ground and flew slowly towards the trees, offering an
easy shot to the oncoming sportsmen. The Sheep banged forth with both
barrels, and gave an exultant cry.
"Horray! I've shot a thundering big hawk!"
"To be exact, you've shot a honey-buzzard. That is the hen bird of one
of the few pairs of honey-buzzards breeding in the United Kingdom. We've
kept them under the strictest preservation for the last four years; every
game-keeper and village gun loafer for twenty miles round has been warned
and bribed and threatened to respect their sanctity, and egg-snatching
agents have been carefully guarded against during the breeding season.
Hundreds of lovers of rare birds have delighted in seeing their
snap-shotted portraits in _Country Life_, and now you've reduced the hen
bird to a lump of broken feathers.
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