AFIELD WITH THE DOG 
ago,”’ he says to me; ‘“‘a good big bunch, 
feeding and dusting themselves—that’s 
why the scent is so strong. It bothers me, 
there’s so much of it. Come on, come on! 
Here they start to run, all spread out over 
forty feet of ground—they know we’re 
after them. Making for that hedge, of 
course; watch me head them off,” and 
away he goes on a wide circuit. [’m a 
sinner if he has not rounded them up 
twenty yards from the hedge. There he 
stands, head up, slimetail straight as a ram- 
rod, fore paw tucked under that broad 
chest ready for the step forward if the 
skulkers move. 
“You stay right there,” he tells them, 
“don’t budge until I say so. I know right 
where you are if I don’t see you, and you 
know it. You may be the exact color of 
grass and dirt, but you smell different. 
That lazy idiot with the gun might hurry a 
little. Wonder if he lights his pipe and 
loafs around like he did last week—here, 
stop that! I see you sneaking into the 
weeds,” and the tired fore paw comes down; 
two quick steps and a halt. 
“Now will you stay put? 
last. Look out, right there between us— 
there they go. Gee! Those shots made 
me jump; it’s nervous work. Over the 
hedge and into the woods—all but two. 
No, I’m not going to retrieve while this 
fellow is hiding here. I told him it was 
no use to sneak away. Oh, I’ve nailed 
you all right and—there you go, trying to 
fool the best shot in town by flying over 
his head. O, dern it! missed him after 
Here he is at 
405 
all my trouble, and I could have caught 
him easy—got him, got him! What a 
peach of a shot! I’m right after him; 
might be winged and running all over the 
field. Quick, where is he? Sniff-sniff. 
Ah, you little devil—but there’s no hurry, 
you're dead enough. Take him now 
before I bite him, the troublesome little 
euss;”’ ) 
A bunch of quail adds to the day’s horn- 
of-plenty—lacking this, nothing is taken 
away. These memories will forever remain: 
The Dog’s marvelous knowledge of Na- 
ture’s secrets, the mystery of his craft, the 
eager searchings and the breathless beauty 
of his carved image poised before the 
hiding bird. The years may pass, but the 
treasures of this day are safely stored. 
The choicest spoils of the hunt are those 
we cannot show. 
Homeward, through the tight barbed 
wire; coat of satiny brown and white with 
never a scratch—another snag in the old 
faded canvas. Up the hill and down 
across the pasture, the Dog covering twenty 
useless barren acres just to be moving. 
One cow is all he flushes. Up a raw, 
newly opened street; down an alley and in 
the back gate. 
A bath, starchy clothes, dinner and an 
easy chair—it is well. Eat, rest and he 
merry, for to-morrow we work. 
The Dog casts a longing glance at the 
cushioned sofa, but the maternal eye is 
severely watchful, and with a large sigh he 
drops in a round heap before the fire- 
place and mouths a stubble-chafed paw. 

THE DOG 
The reader will understand the presence of ‘‘the wrong dog” in the preceding picture, when it is made known that the 
Dog, alas! is no more. Mr. Morton had the photograph which is reproduced on Page 403 made at our request—it will not be 
hard to understand and share his regret that the Dog that was could not be pictured with him.—Eb. 
