A ONE BIRD HUNT. 
F. W. DECKER. 
Game of all kinds is scarce in Northeast- 
ern Orange county. Many a disappointed 
sportsman can testify to that. Everything 
is scarce in that region but prohibitionists 
and book agents, and they furnish very dull 
sport. Some watchdogs, however, find 
pleasant diversion chasing the latter. 
I started to tell about a hunt a friend and 
Ihad. My friend, whom I will call Bentley. 
owned 2 good bird dogs—he said they were 
good, so, of course, they were—and was 
very fond of telling about past glories in the 
field. It chanced last fall that we decided to 
take a day off, and have some sport with 
dog and gun. We started out about 8 
o'clock in the morning, and worked over 
some of the best ground one could wish to 
see. All forenoon we were in good cover 
for partridges, but we did not see a thing 
to shoot at. The birds, if any had ever been 
there, must have taken a day off too, and 
gone traveling for their health. 
When we stopped for lunch we were dis- 
couraged. The dogs were discouraged. I 
think our watches were discouraged, too, 
for mine had stopped at quarter past II. 
Our noon hour was made interesting by 
Bentley, who told stories about his dogs. 
He explained their good points, and how 
they could not fail to take first prize at any 
bench show. He also told how he loved to 
hunt, and that the sound of a gun was the 
sweetest music he ever heard. 
Luncheon over, the hunt was resumed. 
By this time the humorous part of my 
nature had gotten the better of the other 
part, and I determined to have some fun 
with Bentley if I could. .We were in the 
brush on one side of some open fields, and 
I informed Bentley of my intention to cross 
over to the brush on the other side, as it 
looked like better cover over there for birds. 
He said it was of no use to go, as there were 
no birds on either side, and he did not be- 
lieve there were any “‘ between Mason and 
Dixon’s line and the Mohawk fiver. ial 
went over just the same, and after going in 
the brush a little way, I fired 3 shots in 
quick succession. 
In a few minutes Bentley came rushing 
over to me, calling his dogs along. He 
thought I had found a covey of birds, and 
was coming to help me shoot them, and to 
bring the dogs to my assistance. 
a ee you get any?” he asked. 
“WVvhat did you shoot at?” 
“T didn’t shoot at anything. 
“Why, I heard 3 shotsover ne ’ said he. 
Ordid aie. 
“Who fired them?” 
Ava: 
“T thought you said you didn’t shoot at 
anything,” said Bentley, looking rather per- 
plexed. 
“Well, I didn’t.” 
“ What in did you fire those 3 shots 
for then?” 
I had to then tell the truth. 
“You said a little while ago that the 
sound of a gun was the sweetest music you 
ever heard, and I thought you would enjoy 
hearing them.” 
Bentley looked daggers at me. 
“IT have heard of nearly all kinds of 
fools,” said he, “ but this is the first time 
I ever saw one try to shoot holes in the air.’ 
Silence reigned supreme. 
For about half an hour we worked on 
“my side” of the open lots, not talking 
much. Sociability was restored by Bentley 
calling my attention to the splendid way in 
which his dogs were working. I noticed 
they were getting quite enthusiastic about 
something, and it- was very evident they 
scented game. Soon one of them pointed, 
and as we were edging up carefully, the 
other dashed ahead and flushed a grouse 
out of some raspberry bushes at the edge 
of the timber. It was a violation of sports- 
men’s rules for a dog to act like that, but he 
and his master seemed to be wholly uncon- 
scious of it. The bird got up about 4o yards 
ahead of us, and we both blazed away at it, 
Bentley unloading both barrels of his Daly, 
and I sending 2% ounces of number eights 
out of my Winchester. The bird got the 
benefit of all the 4 loads of ‘shot, and fell 
completely riddled. One dog picked it up 
and started to run off with it, and the other 
ran after him, like one chicken chasing an- 
other with a worm in its mouth. Bentley 
ran after them, yelling at them to come back, 
and in 5 or 10 minutes succeeded in getting 
the bird, which was none the better for its 
little adventure with the dogs. 
Of course we both claimed it, and so we 
decided to toss up a cent, to see who should 
take it. I chose heads, and lost, not much 
to my sorrow, because the way it was shot 
to pieces, and chewed by the dog, it was 
about ready for fricassee. We _ trudged 
home in the gathering gloom of October’s 
early twilight, Bentley congratulating him- 
self all the way for owning such good dogs. 
“Just think,” he said, as we parted, “ if 
it had not been for those dogs, this hunt 
would have ended in a fizzle.” 


