SUCCESSFUL PHEASANT HUNT 77 
waved merrily as she followed what her 
nose told her was the pheasant's trail. Soon 
she caught it and right proudly did she bring 
back to us the splendid feathered monarch 
held easily between her dainty jaws. Then 
she did a strange thing, showing the intelli¬ 
gence of some dogs—she took that bird 
straight up to John Reymiller, who had shot 
it, and never thought of bringing it to me at 
all. Usually a dog will do just the reverse 
of this and retrieve all game to his master 
only, regardless of who kills it—but Smada 
Byrd has always been an exception to the 
rule. 
To digress for a minute, however, the 
trouble with shooting as well as our friend 
from Piqua is that your fun is over too soon. 
Here it was the last day of the season—the 
last chance to shoot pheasants for a whole 
year—yet John had shot three times (which 
meant that he had the limit of three cock 
birds in his bag) and was in a machine on his 
way back to Piqua before the fun for the rest 
of us had hardly begun. We still had the bet¬ 
ter part of a day of splendid sport ahead of 
us—yet he was all through in a couple of 
