April 12, T902J 
♦FOREST AND STREAM. 
287 
gence that the animal had got loose and left for parts 
unknown. Here was a dilemma, indeed ; five miles from 
home with heavy rubber boots on and my heels already 
chafed, and snow coming down steadily again. 
After some investigation with a torch We concluded 
that the horse had not recrossed the dam, which would 
have been his way home, and therefore must be in the 
neighborhood somewhere. Griffin set off with a torch in 
search of him, while I resumed my drying operations. 
After about a half-hour of waiting I was joined at 
the fire by a youth of the name of Dick Brown, who 
lived with his grandfather, old man Jim Ardis, about a 
half-mile away. He brought the agreeable news that a 
horse, harnessed and blanketed, had turned up near his 
home just after dark, and was now in his grandfather's 
stable, awaiting an owner. Griffin soon after arrived 
with the recreant, whom he had tracked, in tow. 
Dr. R. B. Furman. 
Privateer, S. C. 
An Outing for Quail. 
BY SMITH DALY PARKER. 
The skill displayed by crack shots in the great pigeon 
shoots, and their ability to stop almost every bird before 
it passes the boundary, must be admired, even by those 
who disapprove of the practice, and breaking fifty clay 
birds in succession is also a fine exhibition of accuracy, 
but the man who only has a few days each year to devote 
to out-of-doors sports cannot expect to excel. Let him 
realize that he is not a good shot, accept his limitations, 
and take pleasure in other features of gunning beside 
making a good record. If he breaks fifteen out of twenty- 
five clays, kills half the quail he shoots at, and bags one- 
duck for every three shells, he should be satisfied. His 
aim may not be true, but he can be a true sportsman. 
I have been devoted to gunning ever since my thir- 
teenth birthday, when I received a Forehand & Wads- 
worth single barrel gun, and during the ideal holidays 
of school and college I sat in the mudholes around the 
Great South Bay, with snipe stool in front of me, and in 
the fall had occasional chances at quail, woodcock and 
ducks. A friend, younger than myself, was not allowed to 
go shooting with another boy if both guns were loaded 
at once, so we used to crouch along on the meadows after 
a flock of ox-eyes, one boy with his gun loaded and 
cocked, the other holding his, broken, in his left hand 
and a shell in the right ready to slip in when the other 
gun was fired. We had also been warned against get- 
ting mud in the muzzle, which would cause the barrel to 
burst, so, as we sat at decoys and a flock of yellowlegs 
approached, we would run the left hand out to the muz- 
zle and feel in the barrel for mud. Then, as the birds 
drew nearer and the shot became more imminent, we 
would forget we had already found the barrel free, and 
feel again and still again, in our excitement, till the 
birds saw our movements and turned away. These pre- 
cautions sound absurd, and were really not very safe, 
but the theory of respecting firearms is excellent. Ap- 
preciation of danger in a gun removes most of the 
danger. 
Business has prevented me from shooting for several 
years, but one day last summer I received a letter from 
my old friend, Tom Archer, suggesting a trip the first 
*week in November, and urging me to accept on the 
olea that my health required it. The excuse was lame, 
but the very idea of shooting again sent a thrill through 
me. That evening I looked over my Lefevre and prac- 
ticed getting it to my shoulder quickly and sighting at a 
bird in a picture across the room. A dozen times in 
quick succession made my arms ache, and I wondered 
how I could carry the gun all day, and determined to 
take long walks with it and practice on clays before the 
trip, three months off. I never had time to do either, 
and November found me as "soft" and out of practice 
as ever. 
I was to furnish the dog, and had secured, in Sep- 
tember, a red setter pup with a fine pedigree and nose.» 
but no experience of feathered fowl except that gained 
by having the chickens he had killed hung around his 
neck. He was three-quarters grown, and I believed 
that dogs pointed by nature, so thought I could train 
him, but three days before the time to start my confi- 
dence in the young Irishman vanished, and I wrote 
Tom to get a dog with love, or money, or threats, as 
''Smoke" was too uncertain. 
Quailing without a dog is poor fun; you walk all day 
with the consciousness that a flock may be within thirty 
feet of you, and are seldom rewarded with a shot. 
At last October 31 arrived. What a "boy-out-of- 
school" feeling it gave me to leave the office in the 
middle of the day and start with gun case and grip! 
On the Thirty-fourth street cars were two other guns, 
and on the crowded ferry boat — of the vintage of '62 — 
weie golf bags, bicycles, rifles and at least a half dozen 
other gunners with a couple of splendid English setters. 
I wondered where they were all going, and if they knew 
where to find more game than we did. I took Smoke 
from a boy who had walked him to the ferry for me, so 
had my hands full. When I reached the tall iron railing 
beyond the waiting room, where they waste so much time 
vainly hunting for passengers who have no tickets, there 
was Tom with his hearty greeting, "Well, I am mighty 
glad to see you, Smith, old boy. _ How have you been? 
I see you have everything, dog, gun, grip, and this re- 
markable bundle of old army coat; let me take it. Why, 
it's filled with lead. Have any trouble getting the dog 
over? By the way, you will have to take him around the 
other way and sign a paper saying you do not mind if 
he is killed. I'll go and save seats." 
Soon we were under way and passing through the three 
successive odors of gas, oil and bone. Then we stopped 
at Jamaica, where rumor states that more trains pass 
than through any other town in the United States — 
which means the world, I suppose. Tom said he had 
written to different places for a dog, and that one would 
be put on the train at Sayville for us. Everything was 
turning out right. 
About two hours after leaving Long Island City we 
got off at a small station, took the two dogs from the 
baggage car, and drove in a farmer's rockaway for a 
couple of miles through the fresh, invigorating woods 
tmti] ws came f.o th? small house that Tom engages as 
a shooting box for the first week in each November. 
He had been known there all his life, and the owners of 
several adjoining farms reserve that week for him and 
his friends. Sarah Hill, a timid, cheerful negress and a 
famous cook, takes care of "the box," and a royal dinner 
she gave us. The Blue Points had not traveled far 
enough to lose their real flavor, nor to gain microbes, 
and we disposed of dish after dish, declaring we had never 
tasted anything so delicious, and that oysters had never 
been so well roasted. The pile of shells testified to our 
approval. After chickens, etc., Sarah came in and hesi- 
tatingly said: "Don' s'pose Mis'r Tawm cares f'r any 
dessert?" 
"Why, haven't you got any, Sarah?" 
"Well, I made some punkin pie, but didn't know es you 
wanted any." 
The pie disposed of and the dogs fed, we sat and 
smoked before the roaring wood fire, and began oiling 
up our guns and unpacking our loads, smooth, brilliant 
colored shells with brass reinforcement. Both of us had 
12 gauge hammerless guns and No. 8 shot for quail and 
No. 4 for ducks; Tom uses 42 grains E. C. and 1% ounces 
of shot, and my loads were 3^ drams Schultze and 1 
ounces of shot. 
After a look at the beautiful, starry night, we turned 
in and tried to sleep, but anticipation of pleasure is often 
more deadly to sleep than pain or troubles, and the only 
naps I got were filled with the nightmare that Tom had 
forgotten to call me. At last 5:30 came, the alarm clock 
rang and we lit our lamps and quickly put on the com- 
fortable old clothes we had laid out the night before. 
Tom had the fire blazing when I got down and the 
coffee pot hanging on the crane. Sarah would not sleep 
away from her shanty a mile distant, and we could not 
ask her to have breakfast before dawn, so we decided 
to have coffee early and return for breakfast at 8:30. The 
bright streak in the east had spread over the sky, driving 
away the stars, and at six o'clock it was light enough to 
shoot. We took up our guns, much to the delight of 
Rex, the hireling. 
The morning was perfect, just enough crispness_ in 
the air to make us put on our gloves and avoid holding 
steel parts of our guns, but there was no wind, and the 
sun was due with the heat in half an hour. A beautiful 
white frost covered the grass, and where quantities of 
huckleberry bushes were grouped together the impres- 
sion, in the dim light, was that a mist hung over the 
ground. Rex bounded around us with short yelps at 
first, but soon settled down to work, galloping over the 
field' with his tail wagging so vigorously that it described 
acircle,asif it were the propeller of a ship or bark. From 
the way he turned to look at us every few seconds and 
obeyed a wave of the hand to the right or left., we knew 
we had a trained dog and were anxious to see if his 
nose were as good as his action. Smoke, too, ranged 
around, but closer in and only occasionally put his nose 
to the ground. A sudden stop by Rex would bring our 
guns to attention simultaneously, but after a good whiff 
in' the suspicious direction, he would gallop on, across 
the field and back, hunting energetically for a scent of 
the quail that he knew we were all trying to find. 
The fields are surrounded by hedges of trees, oaks 
and hickories of all sizes, with thickets of cat briers in 
some places forming nooks, of safety for the quail from 
his foes. These hedges or balks vary in width from 
ten to one hundred yards, and many fields have dense 
oak or pine woods on one or two sides. When the birds 
get there it is difficult to follow them far, so it is a great 
advantage to know the cover well and drive the birds 
to the thinnest balks. We had traversed two fields with 
no success, though every acre seemed as if it should teem 
with quail, and had just pushed through a balk and 
entered the corner of a third field when a bevy of about 
ten birds jumped up and scattered in several directions. 
We fired three barrels and did not touch a feather; they 
got back in the hedges so quickly and it was so unex- 
pected; but still they gave a partially open shot and there 
was no excuse. We did not know if the dogs were to 
blame for not pointing, as they had passed through the 
balk at a different opening. Rex went crazy, bounding 
everywhere looking for dead birds, and it was difficult 
to get him to "charge." In our excitement we had only 
noticed where three or four of the flock had gone, so we 
started after those, one on each side of a very narrow 
hedge of thick cat briers. After walking only about 100 
yards, Tom called to me, "Come around quickly, Rex 
"is on a dead point; run ahead and find an opening- 
through the hedge so you can get a shot." Smoke came 
with me, and as Rex was pointing almost at his own 
feet, his eyes bulging out and rolling from side to side, 
but not another muscle moving, it was a good time to test 
the pup. We stood on each side of where the bird must 
be, and Smoke wandered aimlessly around and finally 
put his nose against Rex's, but paid no attention to any 
scent, nor to his companion's rigidity. None of the four 
of us was more than five feet from where the quail must 
be, but not even Rex could see him. Suddenly there 
was a br-r-r-r-r, and we put up our guns and tried to get 
a bead on a vanishing bird that had jumped directly be- 
hind the pointing dog. Rex turned his head with an ex- 
pression of surprise and bewilderment; after a second 
of doubt, his head snapped back to its original position, 
as if his captain had called, "As you were," and the point 
was resumed. There never was a more steady old soldier. 
I believe he would be there yet, had we not walked up 
the bird, which came down at the first barrel, a disgrace- 
fully short distance away. Rex did not "charge" at the 
shot, as a perfect dog should, and only turned the bird 
over with his nose, instead of retrieving it. Later in the 
day, however, when we dropped a bird in a creek he 
went in and brought it out, for he saw we could not 
get it, A dog that will show where the dead bird is' and 
follow a wounded one, is about as satisfactory as a re- 
triever that is apt to mangle the birds. It is an inter- 
esting fact that a hunting dog works for the sport only, 
and will not eat a game bird. 
We hunted up and down the hedges for some time 
looking for the rest of the flock, but with no success, 
so started in to find a fresh covey. We kept in the open, 
some distance apart, letting the dogs run along the 
hedges up the wind. Many of the fields were ideal for 
quail, and Tom would point out the spots where he had 
found flocks in other years, but disappointment was our 
. lot, Until we had tramped an hour or more. Then Rex 
began \Q work V^ove slowly, crouching a trifle and keep- 
ing his nose to the ground. He stopped short once, then 
sniffed the air and advanced a few paces and pointed 
again. Smoke followed behind us. We walked ahead 
of Rex, who could not be induced to flush the birds even 
at our command, and the flock rushed into the air so 
closely bunched that I admit I fired wildly into them 
and only smgled out a bird with my left. "How many 
did we get?" 
"Four, I think." 
"I only saw three." 
We walked up and found two, and Rex had a third 
a couple oi rods off. Tom insisted on looking longer, 
and after crossing and re-crossing the same small area. 
Rex pointed a clump of thick grass at our feet, and there 
was a beautiful cock with his fine white throat that would 
never call "Bob White" again. He was only wounded, 
so we dispatched him at once, a most unpleasant task, 
either by biting or wringing the neck or pressing in the 
head, but the man who will put a wounded bird in his 
pocket to die in lingering torture deserves a rawhiding. 
or worse yet, to be deprived of his gun forever. We had 
taken the precaution of getting between the dense woods 
and the birds, and they had flown into a thin balk as we 
desired. Better gunners than I am have told me that 
this heading off process amounted to nothing, and I ad- 
mit that quail will sometimes double, but usually you 
can force some of the flock, at least, in the right direc- 
tion. It was past breakfast time, but who could leave 
such a flock. We took a circuit and entered the balk 
some fifty yards further on than the stopping place of 
the longest fliers, and worked up the wind. This is the 
ideal situation, and for fifteen minutes it was. 
"Bang!" 
"Did you get him?" 
"Yep." 
"Bully for you!" 
"Bang! Bangl" 
"Worse luck to it, I missed him; right in the open, 
too. I'm a duffer." 
"Come, quick, Tom, he's on a point." 
"Bang! Bang!" 
"Good for you; you wiped my eye; thick shooting just 
here." 
We beat the hedge thoroughly and bagged four, be- 
side the four we got at the first rise. That was not so 
bad, and we went to breakfast at nine, comfortably 
tired and hungry after a three hours' walk. 
Smoke had become disgusted and run home, but came 
bounding out to meet us. He had failed miserably, 
missed his vocation and disappointed his master. Tom 
said perhaps he was too young, or his nose was so large 
the scent got lost in it. 
The five cocks and four hens, laid on a shelf in the 
cold pantry, made quite a show. We sent some to our 
wives, and mailed Murgatroyd, in North William street, 
a pair to be mounted. They ^looked badly rumpled, as 
quail always do after being in' the pocket of a shooting 
coat, but came from the taxidermist two weeks later in 
excellent feather. 
Oatmeal, steak, potatoes, coffee and nicotine kept us 
busy for an hour. Then we started, with fresh rounds, for 
fields at some distance from the house. Our sympathy 
went out to Smoke, who was left behind, and to Rex, 
who could have nothing to eat but a half glass of milk 
for fear of numbing his olfactory nerve. 
There is a good deal of truth in the theory that birds 
are in the open early and late, and in the woods and 
thickets in the middle of the day, but we trusted to find- 
ing them first in the open and were rewarded. Rex did 
not "make game" as much as most dogs, but came to a 
dead point as soon as he got wind of birds. He gave 
us a famous one on a grassy bank sloping down to 
the water. His head was turped to one side, and one 
fore foot raised, as it always is in pictures. The sun 
was shining brightly; a light northwest wind had riseu, 
making the air clear and the water and sky brilliant; 
a flock of broadbills jumped out of the river a quarter 
mile out, and the scene was enchanting. 
"Whirr-r-r — bang, bang! Bang, bangl" 
Three birds down and the flock gone to forbidden 
ground. It was over very quickly, but the memory of 
the scene has not faded yet. We sat down and basked 
in the sunshine, and ate some apples we had brought, 
while the quail began whistling together out of our reach 
— not "Bob White," of course, but their gentler call, 
"Phew-i-whii." 
Soon we were off again to find another flock before 
dinner at one. While passing through a swampy hedge 
we were treated to one of those coimcal points that the 
sudden catching of scent compels a conscientious dog to 
make. It struck Rex as he was jn the act of squeezing 
his rather fat body between the first and second rail of 
a fence, and through force of habit he stopped where he 
was, leaving his hindquarters in the bars. We laughed 
* loudly and longed for a Kodak, but thanked the old fel- 
low for his devotion when we had bagged a fine; lusty 
fall woodcock. Rex got to chasing a cat which doubled 
on him in a bush, like a rabbit, and then made for a 
creek, and plunging bravely in, much to our surprise, 
swam to the othef side, a distance of some ten yards, 
while Rex was vainly hunting for the trail. 
On a bluff above the creek Rex noticed the scent he 
was always trying to, select from the many that tickled 
his sensitive nostrils, and stood on a point. We pushed 
up our safety catches, and held our guns ready for ac- 
tion, but noticed he was holding his nose high, an indica- 
tion that the birds were some distance off. We walked 
ahead of him, and he moved up to the front again and 
resumed his point. This was repeated several times, and 
we momentarily expected the rush of feathers, so held 
our guns well out. The field was dotted with native 
cedars, and covered with long thick grass — splendid 
cover — but this progressive point continued for over five 
minutes. 
"The suspense is trying on the nerves," said Tom. 
"Yes, and my left elbow aches like the tooth-ache. 
We are sure of a good shot, though, unless they jump 
from behind the trees," 
'You take your side of the flock, and I'll take mine; 
mark where they go this time." 
"They must be running, but we're getting near that 
farm house, so they can't go much further. Did you ever 
see such a steady dog!" 
"Do you know," after more suspense, "I have & 
sneaking suspicion jf.'!? those darned gujnea-fow|," 
