276 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 



purty dog-goned well ! Lemme see. Now, yester- 

 day I went a-huntin', and I packed along jest 

 ninety-two cartridges, — no, I can't lie to ye, boys, 

 't was ninety-three. I 'd disremembered that one 

 missed fire. Well, sir, I used up them shells, all 

 but three, and I showed them to maw when I got 

 home. You can ask her if it ain't so. I 'd three 

 shells, gen'lemen, and jest eighty-one quails — all 

 single birds. Yes, sir — all shot on the wing. 

 Some day, boys, I hope to be an expert." 



I can see my brother's face as he listened atten- 

 tively to this remarkable yarn. 



"My boy," said A , solemnly, "you may or 



you may not become an expert quail-shot, but you 

 are to-day the biggest liar in Christendom — bar 

 none. And I 'd like to shake your hand, and com- 

 pliment you. If you '11 stay with us and tell us 

 one more gilt-edged lie, we '11 give you lunch and a 

 glass or two of sherry." 



The youth declined the invitation. 



After a time we learned to hit these gentle quail, 

 and others learned the knack; and then, alas! 

 came the railroad, and the subdivision of the big 

 ranches, and dozens of settlers, who slaughtered the 

 birds in and out of season, on the ground and on 

 the wing, till finally the sage-brush that they loved 

 knew them no more, and the survivors — if sur- 

 vivors there were — betook themselves to the chap- 

 arral, to the tangled thickets of manzanita, to the 

 tops of the coast range, anywhere and everywhere, 

 away from the insatiable enemy. So the golden 

 age of quail-shooting passed away. 



Of course some grounds still remain virgin terri- 



