A Red- Letter Day 227 



the bird into the hand, then wrinkles his chops 

 as though an unpleasant flavor remained. It's a 

 grand bird, old and fat, and the druggist's scales 

 later prove it to weigh full eight ounces, an 

 extreme weight for even a female, which is larger 

 than the male. 



When again started, the dog sweeps away to a 

 low-lying bit where the withered corn is taller and 

 thicker. Here he circles rapidly, stops for a 

 moment, then stands looking at his master. The 

 man moves over to him, and closely examining the 

 ground presently detects half-a-dozen small hollows 

 and a tiny brown feather. " Flushed, eh ? " he says 

 to the dog, and evidently the latter agrees. Now 

 the man's own tracks show plainly, there are no 

 other bootmarks, nor has he seen an empty shell 

 anywhere ; so he knows the flush has been owing 

 to natural cause. " Mebbe hawk," he says to 

 himself. " If so, where ? " His eyes rove over all 

 the surrounding cover and settle upon a clump of 

 thicket in a corner. It is about far enough and 

 certainly looks promising. Away goes the dog 

 as though he could read the other's thoughts. As 

 he nears the edge of the cover his style changes. 

 The smooth gallop slows to a steady trot which 

 presently alters to a majestic march. Higher and 

 higher rises the square muzzle and up and up 

 goes the tapering stern, while he steps ahead as 

 though treading on tacks. Two yards from the 

 cover he halts with lifted foot in the perfection of 

 the old-fashioned stylish point. " You beauty ! " 

 says the man, his eyes flashing with delight. Then 

 he goes to the wonderful white form which, hard 



