284 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 



so we rejoice and smile grimly, thinking of the 

 prospective slaughter of the innocents. 



When we tumble into the open, A calls a 



halt, and we sip a little whisky diluted with cold 

 tea, and examine our guns. Then we advance 

 slowly, our fingers tingling for the trigger. We 

 have agreed to fire if the bevy rises out of range, 

 so as to scatter the birds, and when we do flush 

 them, a moment later, are amazed at the number- 

 The sun is almost eclipsed, and they spread out as 

 in the heaux jours d'antan, fan-shaped, settling like 

 a soft, blue-grey cloud amongst the feathery lupin 

 and sage. 



We made a tremendous bag, for the birds, living 

 secure in what was practically a sanctuary, had 

 seldom been shot at, and were comparatively speak- 

 ing tame. They were flushed in pairs and threes ; 

 and our friend bolstered a reputation that had been 

 sorely tested during the morning. But of course 

 such sport is accidental: A and I count our- 

 selves lucky if we bag a dozen birds apiece after 

 eight hours' hard work. It is safe to prophesy that 

 the quail in the coast ranges will never be exter- 

 minated, as few sportsmen are willing to undergo 

 exercise that puts to the proof brains, lungs, heart, 

 and muscle. All said and done, I know of no finer 

 sport. It is, and always will be, the sport of Cali- 

 fornia. You shoot ducks standing at ease behind 

 a blind; you kill snipe wading leisurely through 

 a marsh; you bring your wood-pigeon down from 

 the skies as you lounge cool and collected beneath 

 the shelter of the oak whose acorns are the bird's 

 food. But quail — unless you are prepared to wan- 



