262 UPLAND SHOOTING. 



sight of two young dogs, wMch had never before seen or 

 scented game, one at a point, the other backing him. 

 When I came up, I flushed a brood of young grouse, and 

 the dogs, although much excited, did not attempt to chase 

 — a remarkable instance of education transmitted through 

 many generations of trained dogs. Phil, tlie father of 

 these puppies, was a famous dog in his day; he would 

 retrieve his birds when ordered, and even go into the 

 water for ducks, if allowed. He has more than once 

 pointed a covey ^^'ith a dead bird in his mouth, and I have 

 seen him come to a point on the top rail of a fence as he 

 was jumping over, scenting birds in the next field. 

 When grouse ran before him, and lie feared that his mas- 

 ter would not get up in time to shoot, he would back out, 

 run around the covey, and bring them to a halt, never 

 flushing them, and would fetch the wounded birds before 

 the dead ones, knowing, as it seemed, that the wounded 

 ones might escape. He would hunt with anyone he 

 knew, but if the hunter shot badly, would leave in dis- 

 gust, and go home. He was often stolen, but always 

 returned in a few days, sometimes with a rope around his 

 neck, foot-sore and weary, as if he had traveled far. He 

 was a strongly built, liver-colored dog, with a white spot 

 on his breast; lived to a good old age, and left many 

 descendants of value in and about Chicago. I have 

 owned many dogs of various breeds, but I think that this 

 pointer, Phil, was the most intelligent of his race — 

 perhaps because he lived day and night at his master's 

 side, and so became almost human in his ways. 



Grouse being so plenty, of course large bags were 

 made — thirty or forty to a gun in a day. My friend 



J. E. M , a wonderful shot, once drove from Fox River 



to Chicago in a day— forty miles— and killed about 100 

 grouse on the way, \\ith one dog. As full-grown grouse 

 were worth only 81 a dozen at Chicago, there was little 



