404 
affairs, for the neighborhood is under his 
management and must daily be inspected. 
This is mingled duty and pleasure. On 
his rounds he visits numerous slop-barrels, 
muddies himself beyond recognition in the 
gutters, excites needless apprehension 
among chickens and cats, and conveys to 
the casual stranger dog the unpleasant im- 
pression that he has met the only original 
John L. Sullivan dog on the street. 
Thus he amuses himself during my un- 
called-for absence on week days, but on 
Sunday we scout together. The starched 
and ironed shackles of business life give 
place to trampish garments, loose and 
comfortable; a regalia of dirty leggins, 
trousers streaked and stained, the sweater 
and the old canvas shooting-coat with its 
“smelly”? game pockets from whose gener- 
ous recesses stray feathers of quail, duck 
and chicken may be gleaned. A shapeless 
brown object supplants the stylish Stetson 
and the disguise is complete, but in the 
rough make-up the Dog acknowledges a 
dear familiar. More than this. By some 
weird canine clairvoyance he foretells the 
changing of the week-day grub into the 
dingy moth that flits on Sunday holidays. 
Before I take down the garments from their 
hooks in the corner closet I hear an im- 
patient whine and the scratch of claws on 
the pane. I know there is an eager face 
at the window, eyes asparkle with the light 
of a great hope. He knows all about it, 
and if I disappoint him his honest heart 
will grieve the day through. 
Sometimes—not often, but sometimes— 
the coat pockets bulge with things more 
substantial than lunch, but just as transi- 
tory, for they never return home with the 
field-glass, the duck-call and the pipe. 
Noisy, spiteful things they are, but the 
Dog knows they usher in all the delights 
of earth and heaven. In the frosty dawn 
at their sharp signal he has claimed from 
the river’s swift current great, long-necked 
fowl, sometimes with strong wings beating 
a tattoo about his ears as he struggled to 
gain the shallow water, biting deeper into 
the feathers and conscious only that life 
holds no greater joy. 
So fare we forth on our questing, the 
Dog and I, with clean thoughts and soaring 
spirits, seeking the sanctuary of the silent 
RECREATION 
fields. If occasion demands we smuggle 
the 12-bore along. We use it when oc- 
casion demands, but we do not force oc- 
casion. The day is always too precious 
to profane with needless work and noise. 
The inheritance of freedom is the Dog’s 
portion and also mine. We are a pair of 
foot-loose rascals, and we know it. 
We ramble here and there, thrash our 
way through a cornfield or two, take a 
squint at the river and use the field-glass 
diligently on a pair of snickering squirrels 
in a vain effort to pry into their personal 
affairs. It is so strange one never sees 
them do the stunts advertised by their 
“loving”? friends, the nature writers. 
Finally we stop to rest, which slothful oc- 
cupation the Dog always regrets as a sad 
waste of time. He frets and whimpers, 
but forgets his troubles with the scent of 
the lunch unrolled from an old newspaper. 
I leave it to the reader’s calm judgment to 
determine which of us stands with large 
eyes and smothered gurgles of anticipation 
coaxing away three-fourths of the dinner of 
bread, meat and pickles. Of course the 
Dog eats pickles because I do, but not 
greedily. Lunch having been equitably 
disposed of, we bask in the sunlight and 
fresh air for awhile and smoke a pipe or 
two, while busy paws and subsoiling nose, 
with much scratching and vigorous snif- 
fings, turn out of snug homes several 
families of field mice who scurry into the 
house of the nearest relative before a paw 
can be clapped upon them. This is an- 
noying, inasmuch as the digging must be 
resumed afresh—but a shower of sandy 
loam almost puts out my pipe and fills me 
with dirt and wrath, so further proceedings 
are summarily quashed. 
Turn we homeward now, and if we shake 
up a bunch of fat quail on the way the 
ensuing surcharged moments pile thick 
and fast upon each other’s flying heels. 
Scientifically, when it comes to a show- 
down on quail, the Dog is a canine Sherlock 
Holmes. He thrashes carelessly through 
the corn, but his shadow makes more noise 
than he. There is something doing—no 
more beating the rows or quartering down 
wind. With high head he slips through 
the grass noiseless and intent. 
‘“‘They were along here not ten minutes 
