SOME AQUATIC QUAIL 
BY EDWYN SANDYS 
Author of ° Jpland Game Birds,” ‘Sporting Sketches,”’ etc. 
DO not for one moment 
pretend to claim that 
these particular quail 
had web-feet, or oil- 
glands for the lubricat- 
ing of plumage, or any 
of the other little peculi- 
arities characteristic of 
the waterfowl proper, yet quite a number of 
them took to the water all right enough 
before I had gotten through with them. 
The way of it was this: 
Over all the landscape lay the dreamy 
haze of the beautiful Indian Summer, yet in 
spite of the season, the heat held on with an 
August-like power. For this reason, I had 
been chary of working the dogs too freely 
upon the bone-dry uplands, for the water- 
holes lay miles apart, while the abundant 
crop of weeds was dust-laden and full of 
snuff-like stuff, which would set dogs to 
sneezing and coughing before they had 
ranged a mile. Under such conditions, any- 
thing akin to energetic work was impossible, 
and I railed against the weather, the more 
so because the holiday was all too short and 
I had decided to spend it in Western 
Ontario, for the express purpose of “‘doing 
things” to Robert White, Esq. 
It was too bad, for seldom had I been 
better equipped for a royal good time, while, 
in addition, birds were unusually plentiful. 
When a man has a fine gun, a brace of the 
best of dogs and everything else of the field 
outfit as it should be, it does seem something 
closely akin to hard luck when the sun 
literally burns up everything in the line of 
energy, canine and human. 
“Going to try ’em to-day?” queried an 
old sporting friend, whom I met while mak- 
ing an early call at the post-office, but my 
only reply was a shake of the head and a 
growl that it was too blamed hot. 
‘““That’s so,”’ he continued, ‘‘and it’s too 
bad, for ordinarily you’d be having a barrel 
of fun, Things are pretty slow just now, 

but if you care for it, you might at leaSt have 
a little canoeing. My old Peterboro’s all 
ready in the boat-house, and of course 
you’re welcome to her. You might take one 
of your old-fashioned prowls up the river. 
Take the gun along, for I hear there are a 
few wood-duck left.”’ 
This was a lot better than nothing, so 
within an hour I was afloat in the dearly 
loved craft and lazily paddling up-stream. 
The weight of the two dogs was just enough 
to properly trim the craft, as I knelt astern. 
Black-white-and-tan Jess, true to her habit, 
curled up comfortably ’midships, but the 
rat-tailed, lemon-headed rascal Don would 
have no such lazy business. A pointer of 
the blue, he was bound to sit up away for- 
’ard, where he could observe things, and as 
he was well accustomed to that sort of thing, 
he made no mistakes. For mile after mile 
he sat there, rocking backward slightly at 
each paddle-stroke, but ever on the alert. 
The bow was his chosen place and woe unto 
the misguided canine that attempted to 
settle on that reservation. 
There are worse occupations than loafing 
up a stream like the one in question. Lazy, 
currentless, as the water is, it is sweet and 
fairly clear, and although one could not find 
a rock in fifteen miles, yet in spots the banks 
have a beauty of their own. For some dis- 
tance they are merely clay, uncompromising 
and in quail-time sun-parched, bored with 
the black-mouthed tunnels of sand marten 
and kingfisher; but farther up, where the 
water washes the back ends of too- and 200- 
acre farms, the buildings of which are out of 
sight along the distant main road, the picture 
is very pleasing. Mighty sycamores, bass- 
woods, walnuts and butternuts cast velvet- 
black shadows upon the drowsy flood; 
sumachs glow like bonfires in the open 
spaces, trembling willows lean far out over 
the water, while from tree to tree stretches a 
strangling tangle of grapevines, creepers, 
ivy and clematis, highly suggestive of tropi- 
