The Prairie-Hen 167 



dogs while the other fellow did the shooting. It 

 was just at the prime of the season and birds 

 were plentiful. The first day's bag was a heavy- 

 one, the second nearly as good, the third some- 

 what lighter, eleven chickens being required to 

 complete the hundred. This was an easy task 

 for the morning, so preparations were made for 

 breaking camp. 



" Never mind about shells, there's lots in the 

 rig," he remarked, as we prepared to start. The 

 dogs sailed away and soon found game, which 

 flushed in the usual straggling fashion, and paid 

 the usual penalty. A second lot was located and 

 it yielded three. Finally the dogs pulled up 

 beside a big strip of rank grass. " How many 

 shells you got left ? " queried the driver. 



" Two in the gun and — one in the pocket," was 

 the reply after a feel. 



" Good — kill out," was the gruff rejoinder. 



It was a simple task, for the birds had almost 

 to be kicked out of the grass. As the third fell, 

 to my amazement there was a roar from the buck- 

 board, and what felt like a drunken gorilla fell 

 upon me and bore me, face downward, into the 

 grass, where I was mauled, as it was put, " Good 

 and plenty." The cause of the asylum-suggestive 

 demonstration proved to be the somewhat start- 

 ling fact that the driver had been keeping tabs on 

 the shells, and for the several trips the birds and 



