At one time I determined that I would control the almost irresistible desire to fire till the bird had completed his burst of zig-zag and settled to something like a straight line.

At another I as firmly resolved to shoot the moment the snipe rose before he could begin to twist.

But some unforeseen circumstance always interfered with the execution of these resolutions.
Now the snipe got up unexpectedly right under foot; now one rose thirty yards ahead; now he towered straight up, forced to do so by the tall willows; and occasionally four or five rising together and calling 'sceap, sceap' in as many different directions, made me hesitate at which to aim.

The continual dwelling upon the problem rendered me nervous, so that I scarcely knew when I pulled the trigger.
But one day, in passing this gateway, which was a long distance from the particular water-meadows where I had practised, and not thinking of snipes, suddenly one got up, and with a loud 'sceap' darted over the gate.

The long slender gun--the old single-barrel--came to the shoulder instinctively, without premeditation, and the snipe fell.
Coming now to the brook, which was broad and bordered by a hedge on the opposite side, I held Orion's gun while he leaped over.