172 



RECREATION. 



frost in the air presaged a rare day for the 

 morrow's hunt. We buried ourselves under 

 the bedclothes a half-hour later, with the as- 

 surance that conditions left nothing to be 

 desired save the bird-. 



Next morning after a sleepy-eyed waitress 

 had served us our eggs and coffee at what 

 doubtless seemed, to her. an unwarrantably 

 early hour, we took our way toward the 

 cover. The penetrating chill, which ac- 

 companies dawn in late October, forced us 

 into rapid exercise while the 2 old dogs, in 

 excited anticipation of the day's sport, for- 

 got the sedate manners suited to their years 

 and frisked about before us. 



Our chilled fingers made slow work of 

 putting the bells on the dogs as we pre- 

 pared to enter on the sixth day of our quest 

 in that same particular thicket. All the 

 way across the fields we had smoked in si- 

 lence, individually wondering what the day 

 would bring forth. As we knocked the 

 ashes from our pipes and slid the shells 

 into our guns a mutual greeting of " well, 

 old man, here's luck " broke the quiet and 

 the eager dogs were sent on. 



It is difficult for me, as I now look back 

 upon it, to systematize and coherently re- 

 cord the countless episodes of that memor- 

 able forenoon. I remember many detached 

 events; statuesque points, unpardonable 

 misses, clean cut kills, exquisite bits of re- 

 trieving, hilarious greetings, the exquisite 

 sense, pervading everything, of having tri- 

 umphed at last through sheer, dogged per- 

 sistence. But as for a clear and concise 

 account of that hunt, it is for me an im- 

 possibility to truthfully give it. I only 

 know at noon we took 19 woodcock from 

 our coats and having voted it a glorious 

 hunt in every detail, we left to take a home- 

 ward-bound train. We must have started 30 

 birds that day, perhaps more, and we didn't 

 kill them all. We didn't kill all we could, 

 but we killed enough. 



And when the dainty woodcock shall have 

 become a " rara avis " in New England 

 there will probably be 2 old, blear-eyed 

 bores who can tell with clear consciences of 

 that shoot, 'way back in '96, when they left 

 off at noon with shells in their shooting 

 vests and birds still in the cover. 



AMATEL'R PHOTO BY E. G. CLARK. 



CATCHING PICKEREL BATE, BIG POND, EAST OTIS, MASS. 



