Old October Days in Iowa. 



The sun was low in the west as we alighted within five 

 minutes' walk of one of those long, narrow sloughs with which 

 northwest Iowa was so bountifully supplied in those days, and 

 which formed the nesting and roosting grounds for hundreds 

 of thousands of Iowa's grand game birds. This slough was 

 bounded on two sides by wheat stubble, and being a long dis- 

 tance from any farm house, was an ideal shooting ground in 

 those days. At this time of the day we knew we would find 

 our game along the border of the field working their way back 

 to their roosting ground after their evening feed. As we 

 reached the edge of the slough, Queen commenced to draw to a 

 point and an old, experienced cock got up a long distance ahead 

 and darted away unharmed. However, all were not so watch- 

 ful and the pair which popped up close by, a moment later, and 

 essayed to escape by an exhibition of the same kind, were not 

 so lucky. We were now at the beginning of the shooting 

 ground and some distance apart, leaving the intervening stub- 

 ble between us for the dogs to work. To describe the feeding 

 ground we found there, and the myriad of birds busily engaged 

 in adding more fat to their already plump bodies would require 

 a pen far more nimble than mine. What sport could be more 

 exhilarating than to stand in the midst of such shooting as this, 

 half the time in doubt which way to swing the tapering barrels 

 to ge the best shot? 



My pen is not gifted enough to describe the next hour's 

 shooting, but my readers who have been there know all about 

 it. Suffice to say that such shooting cannot be realized any- 

 where on chickens at the present time. 



The shadows of the wheat stacks were long when the 

 dogs made their first stand, and almost before we realized it 

 our shooting for the day was done ; but it had been a glorious 

 day and we were happy and satisfied. Hitching up, we took 

 our course across the prairie toward a dark streak in the west 

 which we knew was the "river timber." As we drove home- 

 ward we read the signs which were all about us. The after- 

 glow of the hazy Indian summer sunset, the shaggy tops of 



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