42 FEATHERED GAME 



greens behind which they invariably flush make 

 impervious screens for certain noisily-departing 

 forms going comet-like among the trees. I note 

 that I do not kill each bird that rises ; that how- 

 ever I plan to get a shot the bird makes other 

 arrangements. I remember the newspaper 

 hero who has killed a thousand "partridges" in 

 a day on his English estate and wonder what 

 his average would be here. Still, in no nig- 

 gardly spirit, I continue driving good ammuni- 

 tion into the tree trunks and shooting unprofit- 

 able holes into the ''circumambient ether;" but 

 this is a part of the fun — this, and the prying of 

 rose thorns out of my shins, to be done later on. 

 So we press on, ever keeping up a brisk action 

 with the rear guard, hoping to drive them 

 through this cover into another rock-, birch-, 

 and scrub-pine paradise beyond the thick. 

 Here we have a better chance and again we find 

 our opportunity. The dog is beating up hill 

 and down across my path. He whirls and 

 stands braced as though he feared someone 

 might push him against the bird. I rush to a 

 flat, table-like rock which commands a good 

 view of the surroundings and stand facing the 

 dog, awaiting developments. Scarcely am I 



