CORPORAL HENRY R. NEAVILLE. 197 



In the fall Pete Loeser, who, you will remember, came 

 from Albany with me, sent an invitation to go up some 

 fifteen miles to Fenimore Grove and shoot prairie 

 chickens. Henry went along, and was enthusiastic 

 about the sport, which could not be had in the heavily 

 timbered district near Potosi. We met Pete and he said: 

 "The tay vos yust ride, und dere was t'ousands of bra'rie 

 shickens in de wheat stubble und de cornfields." We 

 were elated. 



We had no dog, but we spread out at proper distances 

 to take in cross shots without interference, and walked 

 the birds up. The ease with which they were dropped 

 surprised me after being wrought up by Henry's ex- 

 travagant talk. On our return with big bags of this fine 

 bird, Henry asked what I thought of the sport, and I 

 summed it up in about this style: "Henry, the prairie 

 chicken is a fine large bird and a good game bird, but as 

 a bird to shoot it is easier than the little quail; it flies in 

 the open, and in such a way that a duffer could hardly 

 miss it if within range. It doesn't compare with wood- 

 cock shooting in a thicket as a test of skill, and as for 

 partridge, I tell you that there is a feeling of triumph in 

 downing a wary old bird, which starts like a rocket and 

 puts a tree between you and himself before he has gone 

 ten feet, if the tree is there, that the killing of one hun- 

 dred prairie chickens cannot equal. Come with me 

 some day and try them back of the river bluffs toward 

 Cassville, and if you don't agree with me when we return 

 I'll eat my hat." 



Since that day I have shot prairie chickens in Kansas 

 and in other States, and still adhere to my opinion con- 

 cerning the merits of the two birds from the standpoint 

 of a sportsman whose object is to bag a difficult bird 

 regardless of whether he gets two or twenty. For the 



