Chapter 19

CHAPTER XIX
A PLEASANT DAY WITH AN UNPLEASANT TERMINATION

The birds, who, happily for their own peace of mind and personal
comfort, were in blissful ignorance of the preparations which had
been making to astonish them, on the first of September, hailed
it, no doubt, as one of the pleasantest mornings they had seen
that season. Many a young partridge who strutted complacently
among the stubble, with all the finicking coxcombry of youth, and
many an older one who watched his levity out of his little round
eye, with the contemptuous air of a bird of wisdom and experience,
alike unconscious of their approaching doom, basked in the fresh
morning air with lively and blithesome feelings, and a few hours
afterwards were laid low upon the earth. But we grow affecting:
let us proceed.

In plain commonplace matter-of-fact, then, it was a fine
morning--so fine that you would scarcely have believed that the
few months of an English summer had yet flown by. Hedges,
fields, and trees, hill and moorland, presented to the eye their
ever-varying shades of deep rich green; scarce a leaf had
fallen, scarce a sprinkle of yellow mingled with the hues of
summer, warned you that autumn had begun. The sky was
cloudless; the sun shone out bright and warm; the songs of birds,
the hum of myriads of summer insects, filled the air; and the
cottage gardens, crowded with flowers of every rich and beautiful
tint, sparkled, in the heavy dew, like beds of glittering jewels.
Everything bore the stamp of summer, and none of its beautiful
colour had yet faded from the die.

Such was the morning, when an open carriage, in which were
three Pickwickians (Mr. Snodgrass having preferred to remain at
home), Mr. Wardle, and Mr. Trundle, with Sam Weller on the
box beside the driver, pulled up by a gate at the roadside, before
which stood a tall, raw-boned gamekeeper, and a half-booted,
leather-legginged boy, each bearing a bag of capacious dimensions,
and accompanied by a brace of pointers.

'I say,' whispered Mr. Winkle to Wardle, as the man let down
the steps, 'they don't suppose we're going to kill game enough to
fill those bags, do they?'

'Fill them!' exclaimed old Wardle. 'Bless you, yes! You shall
fill one, and I the other; and when we've done with them, the
pockets of our shooting-jackets will hold as much more.'

Mr. Winkle dismounted without saying anything in reply to
this observation; but he thought within himself, that if the party
remained in the open air, till he had filled one of the bags, they
stood a considerable chance of catching colds in their heads.

'Hi, Juno, lass-hi, old girl; down, Daph, down,' said Wardle,
caressing the dogs. 'Sir Geoffrey still in Scotland, of course,