320 The American Woodcock 



hasting, gun in hand and dog at heel, and cock- 

 sure, and he went to work, and he remained at 

 work. Neither the one he saw, nor the six he 

 said he saw, were in the cover — and so he beat 

 the dog for a no-good brute, and went home ex- 

 ceeding wrathful. And the next day and also 

 the next — but why linger? 



The operation of corn-cutting, of course, ruins 

 the cover and drives the birds to adjacent woods 

 and thickets, where they may be found until some 

 cold snap sends them hastening southward. The 

 brief season immediately after the leaves have 

 fallen brings the cream of the cock-shooting. 

 Then a good dog can range at will, and any one 

 of the swift, plump birds he may point is well 

 worth a dozen of the moulting weaklings of the 

 earlier season. While I consider a mixed bag 

 the best possible of the autumn, there are few 

 field experiences to compare with one of those 

 too rarely granted Indian summer days, when 

 one finds long strips of leafless thicket containing 

 anywhere from fifteen to thirty prime woodcock. 

 Many of such thickets of western Ontario have 

 furnished the crowning triumph of a glorious day, 

 and if the mighty voice of Niagara could be soft- 

 ened to a confidential whisper, it might tattle 

 of rare doings in its trembling gorge, when the 

 gay maples flaunted their splendors which the 

 sly mist strove to veil. 



