WE QUIT WHEN WE GOT ENOUGH. 



PEMIGEWASSET. 



Five successive sunrises had found us in 

 that identical cover, our brace of setters 

 working every foot of the soft ground, hop- 

 ing always " to meet them." They had 

 dropped in at all the covers round about, af- 

 fording hours of good sport to more fortu- 

 nate friends but our presence and mission 

 were apparently ignored. 



Our friends had strongly endeavored to 

 reason us from our unwise choice and still 

 we wouldn't yield. We knew the flight was 

 on and that particular patch of birches had 

 yielded too many memorable days of sport 

 to be thus readily deserted. We felt sure 

 that sooner or later our fidelity would be re- 

 warded, for erratic as is the woodcock, there 

 are certain fundamental principles in hunting 

 him which, if followed, are sure to yield re- 

 sults and to prove him a more methodical 

 bird than he is usually credited with being. 



So we had stood our ground, vainly seek- 

 ing each day the signs of the arrival of the 

 birds. We had each evening turned up at 

 the hotel to gaze green eyed on the bags 

 which had fallen to more successful hunters. 



Then by way of keeping our courage to 

 the sticking-point, we would again relate, 

 with increased gusto, the details of that 

 other glorious hunt in mid-October, when 

 16 plump birds had been taken from our 

 hunting coats. 



The temptation to change our location 

 was great, as we listened to the fusillades 

 from neighboring covers, but an occasional 

 pair, coming at critical periods, had given 

 us the moral courage to resist. 



One morning we were deceived for per- 

 haps half an hour into believing that, at last, 

 our patient waiting had borne us fruit. We 

 had just entered the cover when " Remus," 

 my companion's steady old Gordon, paused, 

 carefully swung off to the left a few paces 

 and pointed. We quietly took our positions 

 and, at the word, the old dog's bell tinkled 

 gently as he moved in to flush. The bird 

 rose whistling to the left and sweeping back 

 out of the thicket, regardless of the shot 

 which cut the twigs about him, I saw his 

 little brown body drop into a point of al- 

 ders which made out from the cover lower 

 down. 



I didn't let many seconds elapse in calling 

 out my dog Nick and we steered straight to 

 where I had marked the bird down. Mr. 

 Philohela Minor was pointed, flushed and 

 in my pocket before 5 minutes were gone 

 and as I turned back to join my friend his 



warning whistle announced another point to 

 the credit of old Remus. 



The bird flushed before I got into posi- 

 tion, but my companion's 24 inch " Scott " 

 barked once and I heard Brer Remus busy 

 in the brush as he obeyed the order to 

 " find dead." He soon passed me, on the 

 way to his master, with a light brown mass 

 held tenderly in his mouth, dangling bill and 

 pink feet showing no wing-tipped sufferer, 

 but a clean kill. 



Busy watching this well-executed per- 

 formance I had momentarily forgotten the 

 presence of my own Nick whose silent bell 

 led me to scan the brush for a glimpse of his 

 scraggy, white flag. I was on the point of 

 whistling when, glancing to the rear, my 

 eyes were opened to the fact that we were 

 meeting something in the nature of a sur- 

 prise. Almost facing me and not a rod 

 away stood the old fellow " jacked up," as 

 immovable as a plaster cast. 



I whistled a signal to my friend and he 

 took the outside, Remus backing Nick's 

 point handsomely as he began to realize 

 what was up. Nick was ordered on and 

 made a cautious, somewhat perplexed ad- 

 vance, a very rare thing for him to do. The 

 cause was quite apparent, however, when 2 

 fat " woodies " arose and one, making for 

 the open, met his fate at the hands of my 

 friend, while I stopped the other by a 

 " snappy " shot through the thick cover. 



After a pretty piece of retrieving in which 

 both dogs participated, we joined forces for 

 a consultation, firmly convinced that we 

 were about to come in for our much-delayed 

 share of the flight. 



But we were to be sadly undeceived. We 

 spent an hour in a vain attempt to locate 

 more birds, gave it up and finally, as the 

 sun rose higher, turned our attention to the 

 not very numerous grouse of a nearby wood. 



Night found us by the hotel fire, a tired 

 pair, perhaps a bit shaken in our faith but 

 determined to stand by our luck of previous 

 years and not raise the white flag, A Jay 

 yet remained to us and we reasoned, from 

 our knowledge of the birds, that chances for 

 success were just as good as at any time of 

 our stay — perhaps better. 



Before turning in we went out of doors 

 for a last glimpse at the hunter's moon, that 

 great, luminous orb which popular belief 

 has given the credit of serving as a beacon 

 to the migrating myriads of the air. Nobly 

 she shone in a cloudless sky while a biting 



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