140 FEATHERED GAME 
wings he pitches headlong downward, almost 
perpendicularly to the ground. Surely he must 
be dashed in pieces on the earth—but no,—a 
bending of his body, a sudden spreading of his 
wings when only a foot from the ground and he 
alights upon his feet as gently as ever thistle- 
down rested upon the summer sea. A wary 
glance about him, and satisfied that all is well, 
he begins feeding. 
Now after him! Across the narrow creek 
with its slippery, shaky edges, and the 
brown water hurrying seaward with the fall- 
ing tide. Carefully, now! It is deep here. 
The pointer plunges in and with half a dozen 
rapid strokes gains the other side. Bal- 
ancing on grassy hummocks which quiver be- 
neath your tread you follow him. Fifty yards 
ahead there is a small ‘‘pond-hole,’’ margined 
about with black mud and short, red-topped 
grass, and this, you are sure, is his journey’s 
end. The dog is well in advance, going along 
with a springy, slashing stride, but he pulls 
up short, almost ‘‘turning a handspring”’ in his 
sudden stand. You approach and wait, with 
nerves a-tingle, for the bird to flush, then order 
your dog on, only to find that he will not move. 
