My father and I joined him in this rather absurd exercise and for the second time that morning clouds of pheasants rose up into the air clapping their enormous wings. It was then I realized that in order to fly across the road, the birds would first have to fly over Mr. Hazell’s mighty Rolls-Royce which lay right in their path with its one door still open. Most of the pheasants were too dopey to manage this, so down they came again, smack on top of the great silver automobile. They were all over the roof and the hood, sliding and slithering and trying to keep a grip on that beautifully polished surface. I could hear