196 PORTRAITS IN INK 



hunter or vengeful poultry breeder, he gives the 

 vixen an unmistakable hint to move to safer quar- 

 ters. If her Thanksgiving antedates his by two 

 months or more, he overlooks the mistake in the 

 calendar and forgives the venal sin for the sake 

 of future sport and possible expiation in the days 

 of the sere and yellow leaf, days that shall bring 

 more leisure to himself and freedom to the old 

 hound, now yawning and whining in the leash at 

 home. 



When haying and harvesting are over, he robs 

 less exacting labor of an occasional day to prowl 

 along a willowy stream beloved of wood duck or 

 to crawl in the sedgy borders of the haunts of 

 dusky duck and teal, or he makes his stealthy way 

 in the constant shade of wood roads and forest 

 by-paths and ferny margins of the woods, where 

 the yet unbroken flocks of grouse are likely to 

 be, and if he stalks two or three wary birds and 

 brings them to pocket from tree or ground, or from 

 the air by rare chance, or gets one raking shot at a 

 logful of sleeping wood ducks, or into a huddle of 

 shy duskies, or a passing flock of swift-winged teal, 

 he counts it a good day's sport, with tangible and 

 sufficient proof thereof. But if he has none of the 

 rewards, the fatigues of the day are rest from toil 

 and care, and so not unrequited. 



In the later days of the year, when woods are in 

 the fading gray of autumn, or winter has overlaid 



