256 



RECREATION. 



Yes, my friend, you are a philosopher! 

 Every man should have a pastime, and 

 truly, as you say, they should all be out 

 door pastimes; for indoor sports are sel- 

 dom innocent, never invigorating; while 

 outdoor life gives plenty of air and exer- 

 cise and is always manly in character and 

 quality! 



" Better to hunt in the fields for health unbought 

 Than fee the doctor for the nauseous draught." 



"Come," I call to the dogs, and sally 

 down the long verandah, but both dogs 

 hang back. 



"What does that mean?" I asked. "Well 

 Prim! Well, Lance!" 



But John N. Lewis, that veteran trainer 

 of field trial setters, laughed and laughed; 

 and between many a gasp he said: 



"You have on your house clothes and 

 haven't a gun. Now, did you ever think 

 of it — for dogs." 



Which of the 2, dog or man, was right.? 

 The instinct of the dog, the most loyal arid 

 faithful even unto death of all living creat- 

 ures that man has ever formed a compact 

 with, or the man, vacillating between the 

 2 desires? The dog, faithful and honest to 

 his nature, responding to heredity, show- 

 ing acquired knowledge and intelligence 

 of gun and garb, only desired to hunt; to 

 hunt to the death. While I, repressing 

 or postponing the desire to kill, wished 

 to walk out in the stubble and down the 

 furrows listening to the shrill piping of 

 the quail; to hear the melodious "Bob 

 White! Bob White Bob White!" 

 Wished to see the dogs at work and mark 

 how closely I could approach ere I 

 started, ofttimes half affrighted myself, the 

 wild whirr and drum of the speeding covey 

 as the birds flushed. 



At every turn the maples burn 



The quail is whistling free, 

 The old grouse whirrs and the frosted burrs 



Are dropping for you and me. 



It has often afforded a pleasure that has 

 not been surpassed by the most difficult 

 shots; and if it be only superstition or 

 what you may, the luck of a man without a 

 gun has ever been and will ever be mar- 

 vellous! Across your path browses the 

 caribou; down to the water edge the deer 

 comes to drink; through the trees fly 

 quails and grouse and perch right before 

 you; while in the open the turkey struts 

 with tail afan and caruncle and dewlap 

 puffed to fiercest red. And the gun is in 

 camp! In that mood, it is just where it 

 should be. 



But in the judgment of the dog you must 

 be forever on the lookout, keenly vigilant, 

 never relaxed, face turned the way the 

 game will show, with or gainst the wind, 

 gun poised. Yes! These must you do 

 when your dogs range and when they 

 point, for they expect you to shoot; aye, 



to shoot and to kill! The old zigzag 

 fences, almost hidden by the underbrush, 

 present no barrier even though now I have 

 to climb where but a short time ago it 

 was, put the gun through, and one, and 

 over. 



"Put the gun through" makes me think 

 what graves had not been so untimely 

 filled, what misery and anguish had been 

 spared, what "might have been" left un- 

 said if the gun had been "put through." 



I know a grave on the Belles Amour 

 where the English primroses come every 

 year on the First Royal Mail that goes to 

 the North Shore. I know a grave on the 

 marge of the White Barrens where a mar- 

 ble shaft makes the stray hunter pause 

 and walk sadly away. Only a name and a 

 date! What more and what less of life 

 and death! 



"Over, Lance;" for Prim had gone and 

 is already coming up on the inner side. 

 That point makes me gasp, for Lance, 

 answering me with a leap that takes the 

 5 rails, straightens out as he touches the 

 ground and turns to bronze. Not a mo- 

 tion, not a muscle or a hair moves. That 

 fore foot, lifted from the ground, is rigid 

 and the line is almost straight that runs 

 from nose to end of flag. I stand in 

 ecstacy, the proud owner of a dog worth 

 having, and turn to look for Prim. She 

 is coming down the field near the fence 

 and little is the danger that she will spoil 

 the point. Mark what a sight that is! She 

 has seen the dog and is honoring the 

 point. She wants none of it and yields all 

 credit to Lance, and I lovingly watch her 

 as she backs to the scent. 



How long will Lance stand? Till dooms- 

 day, I believe, in my heart, if no one dis- 

 turbed him or the bird. Certainly not 

 hunger nor exposure would cause him to 

 desert his post until the master's voice 

 bade him. Yet Lance knows I have no 

 gun. 



"Now, Bob White, let me see where you 

 crouch to cover; where you make stand to 

 your enemy." Softly I move forward. 

 Scarcely a leaf rustles or a footfall is heard 

 as I move up the furrow. I know the 

 quails are just behind that heap of fallen 

 cornstalks and bean vines around which 

 the autumn winds have gathered the leaves 

 and straw. See the mottled reds, browns 

 and russets of the leaves and the dead- 

 m^rl v^llow and gold of straw and stalk. 

 Color for color they blend with the plum- 

 age of the quail. Nature's pigments are 

 gathered around Bob White, and she hides 

 lvm in a penetralia that would yield per- 

 fect refuge save for the game scent that 

 blows down the wind, and betrays. Un- 

 kind and cruel Mother Nature, to neutral- 

 ize r>nff rWtrn-y the gift of sanctuary. 



Now I know the little cock that struts 

 and drums in his love making will be 



