The
birds were quite tame: all our wild birds were if anything too tame,
although not _shockingly_ so as Alexander Selkirk found them on his
island--the poet's, not the real Selkirk. The birds being so
scattered, all he could do was to lie flat down and fire with the
barrel of his fowling-piece level with the flock, and the result was
that the shot cut through the loose flock to a distance of thirty or
forty yards, dropping thirty-nine birds, which we put into the sack,
and remounting our pony set off home at a fast gallop. We were riding
barebacked, and as our pony's back had a forward slope we slipped
further and further forward until we were almost on his neck, and I,
sitting behind my brother, shouted for him to stop. But he had his gun
in one hand and the sack in the other, and had lost the reins; the
pony, however, appeared to have understood, as he came to a dead stop
of his own accord on the edge of a rain-pool, into which we were
pitched headlong. When I raised my head I saw the bag of birds at my
side, and the gun lying under water at a little distance; about three
yards further on my brother was just sitting up, with the water
streaming from his long hair, and a look of astonishment on his face.
But the pool was quite clean, with the soft grass for bottom, and we
were not hurt.
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