4S6 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Dec, 8, 1894. 
%he jtpotknimi tourist. 
DAYS AFIELD. 
Again after ruffed grouse. This time Elmer says, 
"Come go, the Professor will joia us." 
A consultation with my junior, a few hurried instruc- 
tions to the book-keeper, some things put off , and some, I 
am afraid, left undone. It is surprising how easy it is to 
arrange your business to absent a few days when you 
really want to "go gunning." 
Elmer is a good fellow, tall and handsome, has hosts of 
friends and I doubt if an enemy in the world, generous, 
open-handed and open-hearted and full of motber-wit. 
To him the possession of anything enhances its value ten 
fold; Blank is the only maker that can make a gun, and 
Elmer's is the best he ever made; Antonio is the only dog 
in America that can sire a good dog, and Elmers is (to 
him) the only real good one he ever got. 
When he's not talking gun, Antonio pups, "going gun- 
ning," the virtues of his political party, or the stupidity 
of the other, he sells dry goods. Judging from the 
"brand" of his gun, the pedigree and shape of his dogs, 
the cut of his clothes and his general easy manner, he 
must sell a good many. 
Four o'clock on a dark, damp, chilly morning in late 
October in the Pocono Mountains is c arly, and it takes a lib- 
eral application of the sponge and plenty of cold water to 
get me thoroughly awake, A short walk to the Profes- 
sor's cottage for breakfast, helps, and when I get there the 
blazing logs in the chimney place look and feel good, the 
ham and coffee smell and taste better. Before we're 
through breakfast the team and George Stiff arrive; he is 
afraid it's going to rain; it does look like it; but the dogs 
and guns, macintoshes, lunch baskets and we are soon 
packed in. We have a nice little drive of twelve miles 
over the mountain roads to Bender's, just on the border of 
Pike and Monroe counties. 
Because Donald refuses to lie lengthwise on the iron 
foot rail in the front of the wagon — there's no other place 
for him — the Professor suggests that I have him taught 
how to behave properly in the carriage, pointing to Ben 
Hur and his son comfortably rolled up under the back 
seat; but it is a disagreeable, clammy, cold morning, and 
I don't mind. (It's wise to keep one dog where he could 
locate a bird should one be lying beside the road ) All 
things have an end, and so does that ride. 
I wish I could describe that almost perpendicular cliff 
rising up full 500ft. over there on our left, timbered half 
way up its rugged gray rocky sides, rising out of a base of 
color from the deep green of the hemlocks to the bright 
scarlet of the maples, with all the intervening shades of 
reds, yellows and browns of the autumn woods. 
It won't rain, the clouds are drifting away and the 
mountain top is standing out clear and bold with only an 
occasional cloud "hitting" it as they pass over. 
But what is Donald doing there? My nerves begin to 
tingle as the pup shows that something in the air is pleas- 
ing his sense of smell. Isn't he a picture? Head and tail 
stiff and straight, the breeze swaying his handsome flag, 
his fine white coat glistening as satin, that small tan spot 
just back of the shoulder and the dark ear seeming to 
intensify the whiteness. He looks a statue. Not a 
motion, unless you can detect that slight quiver of the 
under jaw and notice a suggestion of foam in his lips — 
get ready, there is a bird there — "steady Donald." What 
a roar as away it goes, not 6ft. from me sharply to the 
right. As I wheel a twig catches my gun. I recover it 
quickly and send both barrels after him in quicker order, 
but you don't want to take aim twice at a fleeing grouse. 
He's well marked down, and in a few minutes Ben Hur 
and Donald are trailing, and four pairs of hands tighten 
on gun barrels and stocks. The Professor's dog has 
located him and the Professor's gun cracks. Elmer, a 
little further off, sees him coming — only one more load of 
shot for you "King of the Wood" bird, and you are in 
Elmer's pocket. B^n Hur soon finds another one and 
Elmer kills him quickly — two empty shells and two grouse 
— not often beaten. 
They are not thick, it's a long time and a longer tramp 
before we find the next one. 
No loafing around a spring to eat lunch to-day. It's too 
cold and the ground is too wet. 
We are going up over a hill in an old road in Indian file, 
our dogs coursing off well on our flanks, when up through 
the treetops a grouse goes like a cannon ball — I never saw 
a man who could fire his gun as quickly as the Professor 
— I am sure the bird dropped over there in the edge of 
that old field. Donald can get through a barbed wire 
fence quicker than I, and he goes across that field like a 
white streak. Certainly he has started a rabbit, and 1 am 
mad clear through, and start after him on a run. How I 
misjudged him — the hackney that had as fine knee action 
and carried himself as proudly at Madison Square Garden 
this week as that precious pup did when he came out to 
me with that winged bird in his mouth, has a blue ribbon. 
The Professor and Elmer are to go down this valley, 
Bender and I will keep to the hillside. It's our last chance 
for to-day, as the long shadow of the mountain is reach- 
ing clear across the valley. Here are unmistakable signs 
of game. Ben Hur has located it and a woodcock comes 
by me and goes sailing over Elmer's head. My gun does 
not get to the shoulder; his does, however. What is it 
about you, "spirit bird," that makes you so dear to all 
sportsmen's hearts? Why does Elmer feel more proud of 
this little brown beauty than of that big pocket of big 
birds? 
"Look, George!" 
There is Donald again, staunch and true; too many 
guns here to make a mistake, and I move quickly. 
Another woodcock, but I'm too quick for my load; No 7 
shot do not leave me a very good specimen for the taxider- 
mist. 
On again; Donald well to the foot of the hill, some 
40yds. to my left, makes one of those quick points, more 
frequently seen in quail shooting than in the mountains 
after grouse, but he got too close that time before locating 
and away go two grouse looking as big as turkeys. The 
rise is too great for me, but the crack of my gun warns 
the others and two reports follow within just sufficient 
interval to distinguish the two. 
"My bird." 
"Not much, my bird." 
"I shot first." 
"Well, I shot last." 
Bender winks at me and I call out: 
"Who shot 'm, dat caribou?" * 
A hearty laugh from the valley and two big gen- 
erous voices almoRt as close together as the reports of 
their owners' guns answer, "You did," and the bird is 
offered to Donald — but I am afraid to trust to his game 
pocket and so decline with thanks. 
Mrs. Bender's supper — Mr. Delmonieo, if all your guests 
had climbed mountains and rocks and waded streams and 
run after dogs and eaten a cold lunch, and Mrs. Bender 
was your caterer and cook, you would have to raise your 
prices or fail. 
The ride home — Elmer's stories, th*> Professor's remin- 
iscences. When the unrolling of my traps and the 
searching of my pockets revealed nothing but that poor 
mangled woodcock, Mrs. B., did not look so proud of me 
as she did the day we had our wedding recaption. 
If Donald seems the hero of these hunting trips it is not 
because he finds all the birds and makes all the "points," 
but because he hunts nearer to me than the other dogs 
and I see more of his work. G. B. 
New York, Nov. 24. 
* "Sport with Bod and Gun." 
A DAY WITH BOB WHITE. 
Years ago, at the close of the war, game had multiplied 
in Kentucky so that sportsmen, relieved of the anxieties 
produced by the conflict of arms, could easily divert their 
minds by a day or a week in the fields, chasing deer or 
shooting partridges— the latter the Bob White of the 
esteemed and lamented "Wells" of North Cardina, whose 
nomenclature I accept, if not as scientific as our friend 
Cheney would suggest. 
How we love to cling by the days of our boyhood when 
Bob White, sitting on the fence of the old farm, sang his 
solo so sweetly and clearly that ears deaf to all other sounds 
drank in his music as essential notes in the melody of life. 
We felt better and happier then, and had no dust of the 
city in our nostrils or our throats to clean out or clouds of 
its thick atmosphere to dispel before catching the first 
sunbeams from the eastern hills. 
Bob White, how his notes, strong and simple — no divine 
afflatus to dissolve or reduce to primal scale — came to us 
across the shocks of wheat, or, later, over the frosty 
meadows as we sat on the porch of the old farmhouse, 
when the October days came and went with their red 
maple leaves dropping in the creek and furnishing a hid- 
ing place for the minnow from hungry bass. Memories 
crowd on us when we think of these golden houra of the 
long agone, and scores of pages could not tell how happy 
our hearts were. Bear were plenty then, big and lusty; 
squirrels dropped the hulls of the hickory nut in infre- 
quent showers from the scale-bark trees as we sat or stood 
beneath them and watched to find in what particular 
limb or bough they sat and made their meal or prepared 
their winter stock. 
Back of the old farmbousa stood the cabins of the 
blacks that were slaves and had not become awakened to 
the new order of things and still relied on "old marster" 
and "old mistiss" to relieve their daily wants. Shoes and 
clothes and "somethin' to eat" they had for years gotten 
as manna from the clouds, out of the hands of the owners 
of the old plantation, and when the war closed they 
had not fully learned that "man earns his bread by the 
sweat of his brow." 
But I wander. The smoke of battle had ceased ; the 
boys had come home — the old blessed home — and social 
and public life were being reorganized. Partridges — old 
Bob White — were loose in the land, those that loved the 
sport had only to get their guns cleaned, fill their powder 
flasks and shot bags (no loaded shells then), and tramp the 
fields to get a full share of the feathered favorites. 
A friend of mine — John W. Irvine — invited me to visit 
the old Grigsby farm in Lincoln county, Ky., six miles 
from Danville, and take a day's hunt for the fast flyers. 
Gladly accepting the invitation, we drove out the night 
before the hunt and stayed with the old folks in the spa- 
cious farmhouse, whose owner had not yet returned from 
the war. So enthusiastic was our talk before the blaze in 
the fireplace that Major Irvine, the father of my friend, 
vowed that next day he would take his gun and join us, 
and show the young bloods how to shoot. His memories 
of the days agone, when game was too plenty to offer any 
special enticement to the hunter, warmed his blood, and 
oft he was raising his arms and leveling his gun in deadly 
aim as he recited the good old times when game actually 
got in one's way and had to be moved out by rock, shot or 
bullet. 
It was a bright, clear, frosty morning that greeted our 
sight next day as we rose with the sun, and after a hot 
and inviting breakfast called the dogs and were off to the 
fields. The country was level or gently rolling, with brier 
patches here and there, or clumps of weeds, whose seeds 
afforded rich food to Bob White in his rambles. The corn 
was cut, and here and there a stubble field presented a 
parade ground for our fluttering innocents. Major Irvine, 
with his long 36-inch barrel shotgun, was promptly on 
hand and zealous to test our skill and walking powers. 
It did not take long to prove that young legs were better 
than old ones, and quietly dropping to the rear the Major 
formed the rear guard of the bunt, coming in on the 
reserve wbjsn our shots had gotten the birds well scattered. 
Of course this gave us the advantage, and blaming us for 
trying to walk our legs off, the Major excused his lack of 
success by declaring that he would rather not kill a single 
bird than try to run it down and kill it before it had a 
chance for its life. He believed in giving every living 
thing a chance, and a fair one, and our course was simply 
cruel murder. 
As we crossed the pike on leaving the house and entered 
a cornfield bordered by beech woods, the dog3 flushed a 
covey in some ragweeds. Rising, they divided, part going 
into the woods and a part settling in the lower end of the 
cornfield. My friend John followed the latter and I 
climbed the intervening fence and proceeded to flush 
those that settled in the leaves of the woods, the dogs — 
Dash and Don — went with Irvine and left me to tramp up 
the stragglers. On the first that got up and darted among 
the low-hanging beech limbs I scored a clean miss, but 
dropped the second as he rose from a clump of briers and 
was straightening out for a bee-line to the north. Two 
others flushed wild, and after ten minutes' tramp I only 
succeeded in bagging one more of the flock. Meanwhile 
John had bagged five birds in the cornfield, and the Major 
proudly showed one that he had "knocked down at 60yds., 
sir, every yard full measure— just wanted to show you 
young fellows what could be done with an old reliable 
•gun — none of your modern sparrow killers." The odds in 
our favor in game pocketed did not seem to disturb his 
mind in the least, presumably being due to the unseemly 
haste with which we covered the ground and not from 
superior skill or more deadly aim. We humored the 
Major's claims and excused our rapid movements by 
stating that we had promised birds to several friends and 
had to see that our pledges were fulfilled. 
Skirting the beech woods the dogs seemed animated by 
the keen, frosty air, and covered every inch of ground. 
The cornfield, covered by patches of long wiregrass and 
ragweeds around the dead stumps, where the plow had 
scarce deigned to turn the sod, with briers along the fence 
rows, presented a royal cover for birds. Nor was it long 
before both dogs were on a dead point in the edge of a 
bunch of tree sprouts close to a stump. Steady, frozen 
apparently to the spot, with tails stiff as steel rods, and 
eyes to the front as on parade, they waited till we came 
close up. We called to the Major to take line abreast 
with us and choose his birds as they rose. Gradually 
advancing, up went the covey in a bunch, scattering 
wildly. Five shots rang out quickly, and four birds 
dropped to the ground. The Major took one shot only — 
all he said he cared about for a single rise, "but I got my 
bird, dead as a hammer," said he. Which bird was the 
Major's was not entirely clear, as I got one with the first 
barrel and shot wild at a high circler overhead with the 
second, while John explained that he killed two crossing 
and one far out on the right near a cornsheck. 
We raised no issue with the Major on the deadly quali- 
ties of his gun, but as John and I followed the scattered 
birds we maliciously agreed to allow the Major to fire at 
the next flock and to retain our own fire. "I want to 
show the old man he had better shoot at birds sitting 
than on the wing," said John. 
Two more quail were all we got from the second flock, 
as most of them had gone deep into the beech woods, 
where shooting was difficult, and the remainder had dis- 
appeared beyond the range of the dogs. 
Crossing a rail fence we next took in a stubble field, so 
thick in stubble and feed that we felt sure of giving the 
Major the benefit of our plot. Nor had we long to wait, 
for Dash shortly threw up his head and snuffed the 
scented atmosphere that betrayed the lurking birds. 
Stealing forward a few steps he halted and seemed ready 
to point, but either the birds were on the run or the wind 
was fickle, for again he stole silently forward, while Don, 
who was reading an adjacent hillside, seeing Dash's 
action, rapidly quartered toward him. Suddenly catch- 
ing a full breath of the hidden bevy, he stopped short 
and straightened to point. Dash advanced slowly a few 
steps and halted, nose and tail in line. Cautioning the 
Major to be sure and get his bird on the rise, John and I 
slyly exchanged glances of anticipated fun and all three 
moved forward to flush. A big covey burst on the wing 
with a roaring sound, and the Major's gun banged its 
single note of assault on the flying flock, for both the 
other guns were silent. The Major turned quickly to us 
with a mute glance of inquiry, and we were just going 
to explain how it happened our guns didn't go off when a 
lot of floating feathers in the air and a fluttering part- 
ridge on the ground upset our calculations, and for the 
moment we looked at each other in a dazed way. 
"I was waiting for you to shoot," said John, as he 
looked at me with a quizzical gaze. 
"And I was waiting for you," I replied, "but I reckon 
the Major didn't kill the bird he shot at." 
"I kill my birds," stiffly added the Ma jor, "and doubt- 
less help you to kill some of yours." 
The laugh was clearly on us, but neither John nor I 
were just then in the humor to tell the Major the joke 
that gave us its sharp edge. 
"Too many birds in that flock," said John to me when 
we got out of hearing of the Major. "Couldn't help 
hitting one if he had shut both eyes." 
The bevy had scattered well in the stubble and the dogs 
did excellent woik, so that before quitting the stragglers 
we had bagged nine birds, of which John got six and I 
three, while the Major explained that as he did not care 
to walk himself down he would lag in the rear and watch 
our work. 
Two more coveys we got up before noon in the open 
fields, but some one had evidently cut down their 
numbers before we flushed them, as both were small and 
only netted us a few birds from each. 
The sun had now got well overhead and was making 
matters quite warm for us, when, in crossing a low worm 
fence, the Major suggested it was a good plan to halt and 
dispose of our lunch. It met our approval exactly, and 
taking the cold chicken, ham and other eatables stored in 
our game pockets ere we left the farmhouse in the morn- 
ing, we waded into them with such relish as only active 
exercise and open air can give. 
We were just concluding the lunch when the rail on 
which we were sitting suddenly broke and came near 
dropping us to the ground. The next rail proved of 
sounder stuff and caught the fall. 
In the laugh provoked by the incident, John saw a 
chance to suggest a conundrum. 
"Pa," said he, "what makes things weigh heavier after 
you eat 'em than when you carry 'em in your pocketV" 
"Guess you got more than your shai'e and the fence 
rebelled," replied the Major. "Don't eat so much next 
time, or else, take a seat on the ground." 
Distributing the remnants of the lunch to the dogs, we 
concluded to take a short rest before resuming operations. 
Bafore us lay a small bottom, with clumps of weeds here 
and there, and just beyond, at the foot of several wooded 
knolls, ran a spring branch. Our plan was to cross the 
branch, go over the hills and work up some stubble 
that lay beyond. As we sat on the fence and chatted, 
the dogs were leisurely moving among the weeds, 
nosing here and there, when suddenly a big bevy rose 
on wing and flying well together, dropped on one of 
the knolls among the leaves. The ground was clear, 
the trees were scattered enough for good shooting, and 
calling to the dogs to steady them, John and I jumped 
down and made ready to open on the flock. The Major 
complained that he was hot and tired, and he would sit 
and watch us get the birds up, Climbing the hillside 
carefully, we slowly approached the spot where we had 
watched the birds light. The dogs were ahead and slowed 
down to our repeated warnings, but singularly enough, 
they reached the ground, passed over it, went beyond, 
circled in all directions, but evidently without detecting 
the slightest scent of the hidden flock. Having seen 
