Once now and then the tints of autumn are so beautiful that the artist can hardly convey what he sees to canvas.

The maples are aglow with orange, the oaks one mass of buff, the limes light gold, the elms a soft yellow.

In the hawthorn thickets bronze spots abound; here and there a bramble leaf has turned a brilliant crimson (though many bramble leaves will remain a dull green all the winter through); the edible chestnut sheds leaves of a dark fawn hue, but all, scattered by the winds, presently resolve into a black pulp upon the earth.

Noting these signs the sportsman gets out his dust-shot for the snipe, and the farmer, as he sees the fieldfare flying over after a voyage from Norway, congratulates himself that last month was reasonably dry, and enabled him to sow his winter seed.
'Sceap--sceap!' and very often the snipe successfully carries out the intention expressed in his odd-sounding cry, and does escape in reality.
Although I could not at first put my theory into practice, yet I found by experience that it was correct.

He is the exception to the golden rule that the safest way lies in the middle, and that therefore you should fire not too soon nor too late, but half-way between.