l80 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME. 



his wet coat ; yet he wags his tail, and looks as if 

 he would not go back to the fire even if you 

 should. Many the acres of dreary dead grass 

 and chilly, sour slop through which you tear and 

 splash your way, with never a sight or sound of 

 life but the dark line and dismal caw of the 

 winter's crow across the sky. Yet on you go, 

 though your fingers are numb ; and on goes the 

 dog, though never was a day more hard upon one. 

 Suddenly the dog goes more slowly ; you hasten 

 along toward him. Yes, he is actually drawing 

 to a point. And before you are very near him, 

 and before he settles to rigid certainty, a sharp 

 Scaipe breaks upon your anxious ear, and from 

 the dead grass some twenty yards ahead of the 

 dog there mounts a bit of gray, seeming almost 

 too small to shoot at. With a quick twist, 

 about the moment you pull the trigger, the gray 

 tacks away on a new line, leaving your shot 

 whizzing along on the old one; and as you whirl 

 the second barrel around and pull the trigger be- 

 fore he has time to twist again, he is just far 

 enough to ride untouched through one of the 

 openings between the shot that the best gun will 

 leave at this distance. 



