MEMORIES OF A QUAIL HUNT. 



(".. E 



B. 



The hazy days of October have passed. 

 The deep blue skies of the peculiarly rich 

 tint known only at that season, and the 

 resplendent coloring of leafage, have given 

 place to the more sombre tints of Novem- 

 ber. With the deepening of the browns and 

 the disrobing of the trees, as they prepare 

 for their winter nap, the old longing again 

 takes possession of me. Visions of eager 

 dogs, ranging and epiartering over brown 

 meadows and stubble-tinted fields, min- 

 gled with memories of past singles, at- 

 tempts at doubles, scores and misses, flit 

 in pleasant panorama across my mental 

 horizon. 



The true sportsman's pleasure consists 

 not wdiolly in present enjoyment of the 

 chase, but many times and oft do scenes 

 of past experiences rise, expelling the 

 cares and perplexities of business life, un- 

 til he again lives in delightful retrospect 

 of the thrilling moments of bygone days. 

 Now, after many years, there comes a pict- 

 ure, framed in recollections of a pleasant 

 day afield; once again I smell the keen and 

 frosty air of that November morning. 



The hammerless, whose hibernation had 

 been disturbed by only occasional inspec- 

 tion and fondling, was brought out. At 

 the sight of its gleaming barrels and shape- 

 ly, polished stock, the eyes of my Irish 

 setter grew black with anticipation, and 

 his body quivered with suppressed excite- 

 ment. Well he knew the meaning of these 

 preparations, and he replied to the ques- 

 tion, " Do you wsmt to go? " with a suc- 

 cession of short yelps and whines, dog lan- 

 guage, which I understood as expressing 

 his unqualified approval. He thrust his 

 cold nose into the pockets of the soiled 

 and blood-stained shooting-coat and rev- 

 eled in the scent of game. Now, weighted 

 down with shells, but with footsteps made 

 light by hope of a successful day, I left the 

 house. 



By arrangement I met my friend G , 



with his pointer, Spot of Kent, in the sub- 

 urbs of the city. We immediately started 

 for the hunting-ground, which was along a 

 valley enclosing a small brook, about 2 

 miles distant, wdiere a few bevies of quails 

 had been located in the early days of au- 

 tumn. 



A light snow covered the ground. The 

 wind being rather cold, our quest must be 

 among the thicker cover, for "Bob White" 

 is a lover of sunshine, in his foraging ex- 

 peditions among the ragweed and stubble 

 of the open fields. 



Long and patiently we searched. The 

 dogs did their work thoroughly; but they 

 showed signs of discouragement, as the 



hours passed without a find. In vain we 

 peered into seductive sedges and protected 

 corners, looking for the imprint of dainty 

 feet in the soft snow. We were on the 

 verge of abandoning the hunt; in fact, had 

 turned toward home, when — " What's the 

 matter with Duke? " The resigned, pa- 

 tient gallop of the industrious though dis- 

 couraged setter has vanished. Now every 

 movement is replete with activity and cau- 

 tion. The brown nose is following the 

 trail through the weeds at a pace indicat- 

 ing scent of foot rather than of body. 

 Here, at last, are the footprints for which 

 our eyes have hungered these many hours, 

 and they are in plenty. Our spirits rise 

 in anticipation, and words of caution are 

 spoken to the dogs. Lack of success ear- 

 lier in the day has rendered them fiercely 

 intent on immediate capture. 



Here, in the shelter of a tuft of grass, is 

 where the birds spent the night. From 

 the size of the resting-place, and the num- 

 ber of tracks leading from it, we know it 

 is not a few scattered birds we are follow- 

 ing, but a bevy of sufficient size to afford 

 good sport. The trail leads toward the 

 road, beyond which a dense thicket of 

 maple and oak saplings forms the advance 

 guard of the forest. Suddenly the tracks 

 cease, but certain parallel incisions in the 

 snow indicate that from here the bevy com- 

 pleted its journey by wing. It is not hard 

 to guess where the " brownies " are now 

 in hiding. 



Calling the dogs to a closer range, we 

 cautiously cross the road and enter the 

 thicket. Now every nerve tingles with ex- 

 pectancy, and our eyes are strained to 

 catch a glimpse of the winged bullets mo- 

 mentarily expected to start from tuft of 

 grass or bunch of tangled weeds. 



G and I separate, the more thor- 

 oughly to beat the cover. Nothing but 

 snap shots can score in this mass of under- 

 brush, and all chances must be taken. I 

 mentally prepare for many misses and — • 

 " Whir-r-r-r, bang! " How the rascal 

 startled me! 



" Did you get him? " 



" No; clean miss." I resolve to do more 

 hunting and less soliloquizing. 



"Steady! boy." " Whir-r-r-r-r, bang! 

 bang! " " Fetch! Spot." Which tells the 

 story of a successful shot by my compan- 

 ion. 



We now pass out of the thicket, into the 

 meadow; the birds having shown a desire 

 to take to the field. Scarcely have we 

 emerged from the bushes when a single 

 breaks from cover and comes directly at 

 us. As he swerves to pass, I let go at him, 



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