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Shooting Times & Country

A hedgerow moralist

was born, very soon after the beginning of the century, in a small Essex village and, after a few years, went to live in an even more remote one in the same county, where I remained until well into my teens. It would be difficult for the modern young reader even to imagine what life was like in those days, when every villager would have turned out to see a car and the only things that carried men in the skies were the occasional balloons which drifted over. There were no hard rocks as we know them today — I can still see old George and Harry, their eyes hidden behind some form of dark, protective glasses, sitting on stone heaps beside the road breaking up flints with hammers. These stones would later be rolled

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