CHAPTER I 

 My Boyhood Among the Pigeons 



MY boyhood was made active and wholesome 

 by a love for outdoor pastimes that had been 

 bred in me by generations of sport-loving 

 ancestors. From which side of the genealogical tree 

 this ardor for field and forest and open sky had come 

 with stronger influence I cannot say. While my father 

 was the one to use the fowling-piece and cast the fly 

 for the glorious speckled trout, my mother was a willing 

 conspirator, for it was she who packed the lunch basket, 

 often called us for the start in the gray morning, and 

 went along to "hold the horse" while we shot pigeons. 

 And when we were bent on a day in the woods in bracing 

 October weather she drove old Dolly sedately along the 

 winding trail, while I hunted one side of the woods and 

 father hunted the other. On such days we were after 

 partridges, of course, ruffed grouse, the king of all 

 game birds. Often mother marked them down and 

 told us just where they had crossed the road, or whether 

 the bird was hit, for the cloud of smoke from the 

 old black powder made seeing guesswork on our part. 

 She loved the dogs, too, those good old friends and 

 workers. Sport, Bob, and Ranger. 



