366 AMERICAN GAME BIRD SHOOTING 



the tip of his nose visible above the ferns. As we came 

 to him a bird rose like a rocket, only a yard from the 

 dog, and whizzed upward as if bound for the stars. 

 My friend's first barrel decimated the banded feathers 

 of its broad, outspread tail, and he caught it with his 

 second barrel as it was speeding its bobtailed career 

 high among the branches of the old oak trees. As it 

 fell, another bustled, with riotous hubbub, almost from 

 the same spot from which the last one rose, and wheel- 

 ing, with its breast, mottled with black and white, in 

 full view, cleft the breeze so fast that the shot from 

 my gun was held back by the resistance of the air 

 waves. At least that was my theory then, and it ought 

 to suffice at this lapse of time. 



Some ten minutes passed away, and we found Frank 

 anchored apparently to a stump in a little ravine far 

 up the hillside, with Jack indorsing his draft on our 

 confidence with his most statuesque attitude, about 

 thirty yards behind him. The birch was waving in 

 the breeze above him, and the ferns were swaying 

 gently below his nose, the raspberries and blackberries 

 were still bright on the bushes in the ravine, and the 

 young oaks were as green as in the spring, but other 

 signs of life there were none. We threw stones in 

 ahead of the dog, but nothing moved. We tried to 

 urge the dog to flush them, but he would not budge. 

 At the risk of losing a shot I went in, for the ravine 

 was deep and steep-sided. A few feet ahead of the 

 dog I slipped and fell, and in a twinkling the sky 

 above me seemed alive with roaring wings and meteors 



