42 FEATHERED GAME 
greens behind which they invariably flush make 
impervious screens for certain noisily-departing 
forms going comet-like among the trees. I note 
that I do not kill each bird that rises; that how- 
ever I plan to get a shot the bird makes other 
arrangements. I remember the newspaper 
hero who has killed a thousand ‘‘partridges’’ in 
a day on his English estate and wonder what 
his average would be here. Still, in no nig- 
gardly spirit, I continue driving good ammuni- 
tion into the tree trunks and shooting unprofit- 
able holes into the ‘‘cireumambient ether ;’’ but 
this is a part of the fun—this, and the prying of 
rose thorns out of my shins, to be done later on. 
So we press on, ever keeping up a brisk action 
with the rear guard, hoping to drive them 
through this cover into another rock-, birch-, 
and scrub-pine paradise beyond the thick. 
Here we have a better chance and again we find 
our opportunity. The dog is beating up hill 
and down across my path. He whirls and 
stands braced as though he feared someone 
might push him against the bird. I rush to a 
flat, table-like rock which commands a good 
view of the surroundings and stand facing the 
dog, awaiting developments. Scarcely am I 
