IN THE WAKE OF THE PARTRIDGE 189 



a long day s hunt, after fifteen miles or so of 

 hard tramping, equal to twice that of easy 

 walking, when my feet are heavy and my 

 head dull, I have never seen a partridge fly 

 without feeling ready, eager, to follow any 

 where. 



After we move the first bird, it is follow 

 my leader! And a wild leader he is. Flushed 

 in the birches, he makes straight for the 

 swamp. The swamp it is, then, and down we 

 go after him, and in we go ugh! how shivery 

 the first plunge is straight to the puddly 

 heart of it, carefully keeping our direction. 

 We go fast at first, then, when we have nearly 

 covered the distance a partridge usually flies, 

 we begin to slow down, holding back the too 

 eager dog, listening for the snap of a twig or 

 the sound of wings, gripping our guns tighter 

 at every blue jay or robin that flicks across 

 our path. No bird yet; we must have passed 

 him; perhaps we went too far to the left. But 

 no whr-r-r! Where is he? There! Out of 

 the top of a tall swamp maple, off he goes, 

 sailing over the swamp to the ridge beyond. 

 No wonder the dog was at sea. Well we 

 know his line, we are off again after him in 



