THE FIELD FROM THE ARCHIVES
CCORDING to that ingenious but depressing poet Edgar A Poe, November is the gloomiest month of the year. But to a genuine shooting man November is by no means a season of penance or mortification. I use the word ‘genuine’ advisedly. As a strict adherent to the gun (I never could ‘adhere’ to the saddle), I am an enthusiast for my own branch of recreation; and, though I hope I entertain a sentiment of catholic regard for other pursuits, I confess I do not like to see the breech-loader laid up in ordinary the moment that the hunting season has fairly set in. However, that by the way. In
