The Quail 6$ 



ficiently difficult to thoroughly test one's skill. 

 The sole fault of the season is that days are short 

 — all too short, when men and dogs are full of 

 " ginger " and " go." 



At the first flush, birds may be trusted to whizz 

 away to the worst cover in the neighborhood, for 

 they have settled upon their winter quarters — 

 the best shelter, hence the hardest cover to shoot 

 in. But what of that? A clean kill now is 

 more gratifying than were three of the easier 

 time, and the birds are apt to lie very close after 

 being scattered. Every now and then there comes 

 a clear, still, warm day, when woods and thicket 

 are flooded with light. This is the day of days. 

 The magic of it makes a fellow feel like sparring 

 a few rounds, running a race, mixing in a promis- 

 cuous scufHe, or just yelling in sheer exuberance 

 of animal spirits. If after a two or three mile 

 sharp walk as a pipe-opener he doesn't shoot in 

 his best form, — and he'll have need to, — he'd 

 best get him to a hennery, for domesticity is 

 what he needs. 



The gun must be swung farther ahead now, 

 and woe unto the man who stops that smooth 

 swing as he presses the trigger. It is better to 

 be too far ahead than one inch too far back. A 

 single pellet forward of the wings may prove a 

 clean kill, while a number of pellets too far back 

 may result in a lost bird left to die miserably. 



