394 



RECREA TION. 



bag. About this time Mystery's social 

 proclivities got her into difficulty. Spy- 

 ing a rabbit hunter in the next field, off 

 she went for a visit. Unable to express 

 all her feeling with her tail she wags 

 from her ears back. Mine Herr whistled 

 and she stopped, irresolute, for a second. 

 Then, with a "yes, I'll be back in a 

 moment " air, she rolled her fat sides 

 along like a Dutch sloop before the 

 wind. 



Mine Herr whistled and whistled, 

 and called, "Come around here again 

 alreaty." 



Returning she pointed a single at the 

 edge of some brush and escaped a 

 flogging. The old dog backed beauti- 

 fully. Up went the camera on the 

 tripod, and down came the quail when 

 he jumped. The old dog retrieved the 

 bird, for Mystery is not one of those 

 ideal dogs that always picks up the 

 bird by the northeast wing and lays it 

 tenderly with unruffled feathers in the 

 master's hand. Neither do our dogs 

 drop to shot and wing. In the old days 

 of muzzle loaders it was the thing to 

 have your dog down while you fumbled 

 with powder flask, shot-pouch and caps; 

 but in these days of hammerless ejectors 

 and few birds, you want him to hustle 

 all the time. I rarely find it necessary 

 to ask my dog to charge in the field ; 

 besides he can see better to mark the 

 birds down. when on his feet. 



A clump of alders grew in a wet spot, 

 just the other side of the fence. Here 

 Mystery pointed again and a woodcock 

 whistled as he arose, only to drop to the 

 photographer's charge of Walsrode 

 powder and No. 8 shot. 



We now crossed the marsh below the 



pond and Mystery suddenly turned half 



way around and stood like a statue. 



"Scaipe!" u scaipe!" said the jack snipe, 



as he jumped and stole along, close to 



the ground, with an erratic flight that 

 would puzzle many a good shot ; but 

 Mine Herr, equal to the occasion, 

 downed him at a good 50 yards. 



There were no more woodcock in the 

 alders, above the pond, but in the thick 

 growth of white birch saplings, at the 

 foot of the hill, Mystery drew and stop- 

 ped, drew and stopped for perhaps 75 

 yards ; then stiffened into a fixed point. 

 Three guns spoke simultaneously and 

 down came the grouse. Here in the 

 course of a few moments she had con- 

 secutively pointed four varieties of game 

 birds. This is one of the reasons why 

 we all swear by Mystery, and because 

 we can find grouse, quail, woodcock and 

 snipe — not in great numbers, but in a 

 comparatively small area — is why we 

 like Whitehall for a half day's shooting. 



Emptying our pockets we counted 

 seventeen head. Then crossing the 

 railroad and canal, we struck a bevy at 

 the edge of the woods, back of the flag- 

 man's shanty. They flushed wild and 

 flew to a graveyard, on a hill top, in the 

 rear of a little white church. One of 

 the dogs crossed over and pointed a 

 single bird. " From prey to prey," says 

 the proverb, " we come to the devil." 

 Wierdly incongruous were the surround- 

 ings ; the three active hunters with 

 nerves strung to high tension, the little 

 cemetery lying peacefully, inclosed 

 within a fringe of natural brush ; the 

 pointing dog, motionlesss as the marble 

 slab near by, which bore the strange in- 

 scription, Charles the Fifth's prayer, 

 a May God do and Satan not undo." 



" I draw the line at shooting here," 

 said the photographer, and he walked 

 up and flushed the bird. The three 

 hunters watched it fly across the ravine 

 and drop among the cedars, then they 

 turned about without a word, and went 

 to the station. 



