became shorter and shorter; and one more shot, as he rose, finished him. Both were very handsome birds. We went back to some ground we had passed over, in our hurry to stalk the ducks, and bagged a brace of snipe; another flying off from close beside us, as we were loading, and escaped.

We then moved round the lake, jumping some very wide drains, and both going down together in one deep scraw, out of which we struggled with our pockets well filled with water. However, with Mr. Joyce's green wadding, we laughed at the wet, and went plodding steadily on, up to our knees. We got one very long shot at a snipe --at least 50 or 60 yards off-and were surprised at seeing him fall stone-dead. On going up, we found that one grain had entered his left eye, which may have accounted for it.

Not far from this was another small lake, in the centre of a bog, quite round, and, as we were gravely told-on good authority, too— without any bottom. It had that shaking skin of grass and rushes knit together all round it, and appeared as if this latter had been constantly increasing in size, and would yet close in the whole of that bottomless pit. We stepped lightly over the quivering mass, sinking deeply every foot, when suddenly up got such a wisp of snipe, under my very feet, that I am bound to say I missed both barrels, while my friend got his right-and-lefter as they flew over him. The snipe were getting up all round as we loaded; and not less than twenty or thirty had, I should say, left before we were ready. A stray bird, that had been left behind, fell to my share; and a jack, fluttering off close behind me, also came down. I crept too close to the edge of the lake, trying to pick it up, when, as might be expected, down sank the skin on the lake-side; and, as the water gurgled and rushed up after me, I with difficulty escaped being caught by the advancing wave, by a quick run up the bank, and, although well wet, was right glad to find myself again standing on terra firma. The dog eventually fetched the bird out. One more snipe, apparently retiring to the bog, fell a victim to his imprudence, and, without ever closing his wings, curved rapidly down,till he alighted, with a plash, quite dead,

in the water.

It was two o'clock when, with a nice little bag of seven or eight brace, we reached the car; and, on our way to the next bog, luncheon was discussed, and the shot-belts refilled. We felt fresh again, as we got off the cars, and started into a new bog, stretching away on either side the road. A teal got up, and alighted down not a hundred yards from us; and, as we were quietly stealing up to him, he got up again, with a friend that he had evidently just joined, and the two, flying round the bog, pitched not very far off, in a thick clump of rushes. We made sure of them this time. However, they got up wild; and we had to be satisfied with only one, which fell to the gun of my ally. The report had hardly gone off, when, from all sides of the bog, seven or eight brace of fine ducks got up in pairs, the mallards' plumage glittering in the sun as they boldly rose into the air. We got three or four brace of snipe, including two jacks, before we left this pretty little spot; and after another bog or two, where we were equally fortunate, we agreed, as the darkness was closing in, to adjourn to the car, get out dry things, and count the bag. It turned out better than we expected-thirteen brace of snipe,

one brace of tufted ducks, one wild duck and one teal, one plover, and a hare, which we had picked up in the beginning of the day, not to mention a brace and a-half of snipe which we had lost.

We put on dry things, lit our pipes, and muffled up, preparatory to a good drive of five Irish miles home. We reached it, all safe and sound, at half-past five, well pleased with our day's sport, and only hoping that a worse one may never fall to the lot of yours, WILL O' THE WISP.

IN WINTER QUARTERS.

ENGRAVED BY W. BACKSHELL, FROM A SKETCH BY H. THEOBALDS,

If we are to have any winter-and it really does seem as if it was coming at lasta seat in such a chimney corner would be no bad berth. What a cozy, comfortable fireside picture it is! One might almost abandon (only just for a time, of course,) the customary furnishing of an English hearth-the smiling wife and prattling children; the kettle singing on the hob, and the tea-tray, ready laid. Look at the old black gaze-hound there, scorching his toes, and evidently fighting one of his recent battles o'er again-the last turn he gave the mountain hare as she made for the woodland; or that particularly quiet thing he had all to himself the other morning. We should be sorry to say our Macassar-headed friend is a poacher, and not a keeper; but he certainly does look very much like it. Beyond the half lurcher-like Snowball, that yet more cross-bred dog, watching so intently the click of the gunlock, is something very like King's evidence. Who shall say of what sort he is, or what work he does? Is he to hunt, or to shoot to? Either, no doubt, as occasion may offer. Small the blame he will have for running in at a limping leveret after he has stood to her in her form, and given his fellow-felon the first chance. Besides, the man does'nt look like a servant; those uncombed locks and queer-fitting continuations have nothing "uniform" about them; this fellow goes more for sport itself than pay, depend upon it; and many a good story might he tell us, of what he has done on "a shiny night." It is a cold night, for a wonder; so let us go in for half-an-hour, and hear what he has to say. Now, gently-rap-tap!

And in a moment, that old gun is in a yet more cozy nook of the chimney corner, and those few birds are thrown quickly into some other corner, where it would take you or me an hour to find them. And old Snowball gets up half-savagely, while his Jack-of-all-trades companion sets up every bristle on his back, and growls out as plainly as a dog can speak, "What the devil does any body want here at this time of night ?" Not so their worthy master. Half-asleep, with his pipe stuck mechanically in his mouth, he opens an inch and a-half of the door, until quite sure it is not Mr. Plush from the Great House, or Master Tipstaff from the Station. Because, as he explains, "they are always a worriting a poor honest chap, who works hard to get his living" the deuce does anybody know how though, without it be Messrs. Mongrel and Snowball aforesaid. Let us leave the worthy trio to the uninterrupted enjoyment of their own society.

SPORTING IN DRESDEN, HAMBURGH, AND BERLIN.

BY LINTON.

Since terminating my last sketch of "Sporting in Prussia," I fell in with a very agreeable travelling companion of that nation, who related the following anecdote with such perfect simplicity, that, however absurd, it was impossible to disbelieve him.

Having remarked on the pleasures of sporting in general, he dwelt more particularly on that of foxhunting, "in which," he observed, "the English take great delight."

"Yes," I replied; "with many it is an absolute passion."

"Precisely," he remarked. To shoot a fox in England appears almost a crime; whereas, chez nous, we destroy them as vermin: indeed I have shot many. On one occasion, a very absurd incident occurred: I was shooting in a wood on my father's estate, when a fox crossed the ride. I fired, and knocked off his tail,'" as he termed it. "This I carried home as a trophy. Three months afterwards I was shooting in the same wood, when another fox appeared. I killed him: and he turned out to be the identical animal whose brush I had already possessed."

But, to my subject.

After having traversed Dresden on several occasions-always during summer-I now found myself there in the month of November, precisely at the period when sporting commences.

"I shall never," said I to myself," see into the interior of a country which can boast of greater interests than that of having simply Dresden as its capital."

Centre of the vast German States, Saxony unites with its simple habits and hospitality, science in advance, both as regards agriculture and industry, and realizes the fact of cheap living. If I were asked, among the countries I have visited, which was the most miserable, I should say Poland; and the happiest, Saxony. Nevertheless, these two countries were once united under the same sceptre.

In order to be kings of Poland, the Electors of Saxony, the successors of the most ardent protectors of Luther, alone of the people of Saxony, became Catholics. Alas! Poland is no longer a nation, save in the hearts of its children. Divided and subdivided, she belongs to foreign masters, who despoil and oppress her; whereas Saxony, though weakened and diminished by war, as by the avidity of its neighbours, has at least held its own, living in peace, with simple laws and a mild administration. Thus is explained the misery of the one nation, and its broken heart; the happiness of the other, in which it rejoices.

On this occasion I was sure not to meet with the refusal to which I had been exposed during the year past, the shooting season being now open to all. Therefore I addressed myself with perfect confidence to the same illustrious official at Dresden; and the day following, without further delay, and with an air of pleasure and triumph, he placed in

H