“Good Hunting 
531 
n 
sure, thoroughly awakened the rest of the 
household. 
But we’re off at last! the long-awaited 
moment ! Across the frosted lawn comes 
the cool, sweet breath of the woods. 
Above the clear-cut rim of the sea comes 
the inquiring sun. And from far out on 
the bay comes a muffled “thrump!” — 
some one is shooting ducks. W e slip shells 
into our guns. We close the breach with 
a low clang that is music to our ears and 
to the dogs’. They are unleashed now, 
they race like mad across the whitened 
grass, then back again to us to make sure 
that it is all true — are we really going 
shooting together again? We are! We 
are! They leap and dance and lick our 
faces. They bark and whine and bump 
their silly old heads against our gun-bar- 
rels. For they too have been waiting and 
longing for this moment, understanding 
all the preparations, crying for joy at the 
sight of faded shooting-coats, springing to 
their feet at every movement of their 
gods. . . . 
Perhaps we fail to strike the scent in 
“Great Lot,” in “Ballroom Lot,” or the 
“Lot Before the Door.” Maybe even 
“Lucky Lot” fails us, though that used 
always to be a sure place to find a covey or 
two, as the name suggests — our own name, 
which in turn may be handed down and 
accepted unquestioningly by later genera- 
tions like the many other local names with 
no other authority than custom. Possi- 
bly we find it necessary to work far out 
through “Muddy Bars” and beyond 
“Lun’s Orchard” to the sweet-smelling 
cover among the bayberries down by the 
water. 
The sun is getting high. It is nine 
o’clock. It seems like noon. Sweaters 
have become a nuisance. The dogs have 
lost their first enthusiasm. . . . Then sud- 
denly — it is always when least expected — 
one of them, ranging casually by a clump 
of stunted bushes, stops abruptly as if 
instantaneously petrified. It is a most 
complete stop. His head was slightly 
turned to one side; it remains so. His 
tail is straight out behind. His eyes are 
fixed and glassy. His nostrils are twitch- 
ing. 
“He’s got ’em — come up!” We both 
run forward, the shells in our pockets rat- 
tling. Thirst and fatigue are forgotten 
now. 
The other dog has seen, heard, and 
straightway understands. He too comes 
up, but more cautiously. Watch him 
putting down one foot at a time gin- 
gerly, “backing up” his friend splendidly 
— -until he too winds the birds, crouches 
suddenly, and stands as if frozen to the 
spot. It is a beautiful sight. Beyond, 
the brown fields fall away to the blue 
water. The dogs are silhouetted against 
it. There’s a white sail out there. 
“Be ready — they’re lying close.” 
Our voices are high and tremulous. 
“They’ll turn and make for the woods 
— look out for a cross shot.” 
We take a step nearer. Though we 
cannot see the birds it is now a moral 
certainty that there is a covey of quail 
here within a few feet of us. And it is 
bound to rise in a second or two with a 
furious whir of wings which always alarms 
the novice and frequently confuses even 
veterans like ourselves. We stand with 
guns poised, our hearts thumping like 
trip-hammers. The dogs are trembling, 
but they are holding the point stanchly. 
With no premonitory sound or move- 
ment there is a sudden roar, a speckled 
brown geyser has gushed up out of the 
grass at our feet, and a dozen quail are in 
the air at once, scudding at high speed for 
the woods, while we, remembering or neg- 
lecting to “ follow through ” with our cross 
shots, empty our guns after them. 
V 
How many did we bag? 
We each scored a right and left, per- 
haps. Perhaps we both made double 
misses. Four birds or none, it doesn’t 
matter much. Every care in the world 
was forgotten for the moment, and we 
have a picture to remember through the 
long days in town. 
