360 WILD FOWL SHOOTING. 
ing a “cur” into the field, slandering the poor dog, 
until I feared Wilcox would leave me disgusted. 
Colonel had been walking behind us coolly and silently ; 
the other dogs were chasing one another without 
method, without system. I turned to Colonel and 
casting on him one of the friendly smiles I always take 
with me fora dog I like, motioned him to “hie on.” 
He shot forward like a rocket, and through stubble, 
brush and briar, over the hillsides, across the creek. 
and through the stubble, he who was despised in the 
car now led the van. And then, when the birds were 
found, he stood as if carved of stone, until we were 
near and ordered him on. Then when we shot the 
first bird, how tenderly he brought it in. Poor crippled 
bird, its broken wing hanging down so limp, and its 
love of freedom still exerted in trying to escape from 
those firm jaws; how it beat its well wing against his 
black nose; then when Colonel neared us, with 
the struggling bird in his mouth, he turned quickly 
and pointed another quail in the grass, right at Wil- 
cox’s feet. One hundred dollars was offeredand refused 
for a “cur” that day, and the life-blood trickled faster 
and warmer in two hearts, when Colonel brought me 
the quail, his face beaming with satisfaction, while 
I read his thoughts in his eyes, and I felt swre he 
did mine. Well, well! Colonel, if we secretly re- 
joiced that day we had reason to. 
As a duck retriever he was perfection, 
all the good 
qualities of one he possessed. He was alive to every 
interest of his master, would mark the different spots 
where the birds fell, and his keen eyes were never late 
in spying a flock, as they started to come in. He needed 
no urging to do his work, and in sunshine or rain, 
