In Old England of a winter's morning, almost anywhere in the hedge-rowed counties, you may see a solemn line of gruff-looking gentlemen proceeding down a quiet lane or across a close-cropped field to a pheasant wood. The "stands," where the killing is done, will be an open stretch hard by the wood's edge. The gentlemen implant their seat-sticks and have a cigaret while the beaters are surrounding and entering the copse at its distant end. Behind each gentleman will be a rough-looking chap, or a trim chauffeur, with cartridge-boxes and the gentleman's...
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