BURN. Even, I, the veteran sportsman
_Punch_, have qualms when a poor bird has been merely wounded, or
when a maimed hare shrieks as the dog seizes it. I cannot, as I say,
discuss the ethics of the question. The good shot is the merciful
shot. But, after all, in killing of every kind, whether by the gun or
the butcher's knife, there is an element of cruelty. And therefore,
my pretty ROSE, _you_ must keep away from the shooting. Besides, have
I not seen a good shot "tailor" half-a-dozen pheasants in succession,
merely because a chattering lady--not a dear, pleasant little lump of
delight like you, ROSE--had posted herself beside him, and made him
nervous? By all means come to lunch if you must, but, equally by all
means, leave the guns to themselves afterwards. As for ladies who
themselves shoot, why the best I can wish them is, that they should
promptly shoot themselves. I can't abide them. Away with them!

But, in order that the purpose of this work may be fulfilled,
and the conversational method inculcated, I here give a short
"Ladies-at-lunch-dialogue," phonographically recorded, as a party of
five guns was approaching the place of lunch, at about 1:30 P.M.

_First Sportsman_ (_addressing his companion_). Now then, TOMMY, my
son, just smarten yourself up a bit, and look pretty. The ladies are
coming to lunch.

_Tommy_ (_horror--struck._) _What?_ The women coming to lunch? No,
hang it all, you're joking. Say you are--do!

_First Sp._ Joking? Not I! I tell you six solid women are going to
lunch with us. I heard 'em all talking about it after breakfast, and
thinking it would be, _oh_, such fun! By the way, I suppose you know
you've got a hole in your knickerbockers.

_Tommy_ (_looking down, and perceiving a huge and undisguisable
rent_). Good Heavens! so I have. I must have done it getting over the
last fence. Isn't it awful? I can't show like this. Have you got any
pins?

[_The Keeper eventually promises that there shall be pins at
the farm-house._

_Another Sportsman_ (_bringing up the rear with a companion_). Hope
we shan't be long over lunch. There's a lot of ground to cover this
afternoon, and old SYKES tells me they've got a splendid head of birds
this year, I always think--(_He breaks off suddenly; an expression of
intense alarm comes over his face._) Why, what's that? No, it can't
be. Yes, by Jingo, it is. It's the whole blessed lot of women come out
to lunch, my wife and all. Well, poor thing,