Aug. 16, 1913. 
FOREST AND STREAM 
199 
My Friend the Partridge 
The Charm of Upland Shooting 
T HERE is a charm in the pursuit of New 
England upland game that appeals to the 
heart of the sportsman, that fills his soul 
with a sweet content and delight that seldom 
comes to him in other, even the best, game 
sections of this broad land. Faith in this state¬ 
ment permeates my whole being; corroborative 
evidence in abundance can be readily obtained 
from many hundreds of sportsmen who are quali¬ 
fied by a large and varied experience in different 
localities to give expert testimony as to its truth. 
In the silent watches of the night, while 
camping out on the broad Iowa prairies with my 
companion and three strangers who had joined 
us at sunset, I answered, in response to the 
question as to how I liked Western shooting, 
that one day among the forest-crowned hills of 
dear New England was worth weeks on the tree¬ 
less plain. One of the strangers grasped my 
hand with a grip that made my fingers tingle, 
another threw his arms around me with a fer¬ 
vent, “God bless you,” while the third gave by 
far the most flattering and impressive indorse¬ 
ment of the opinion I had expressed by hastily 
drawing his hand across his eyes as he arose, 
and with bowed head walked away. I afterward 
learned that this man was born among the Berk¬ 
shire hills in old Massachusetts, where he had 
spent many happy days in pursuit of his favorite 
sport, and it was his description of the wondrous 
beauty of the locality that led me a few years 
later to one of the fairest sections of country 
for the sportsman that I have ever seen. When 
I gazed upon his former home, surrounded by 
the everlasting hills, and feasted my eyes upon 
the beauties of nature in its rugged wildness 
here displayed, I could not doubt that the well- 
springs of his heart were stirred to their utmost 
depths when on the bleak and desolate prairie he 
heard from stranger lips ardent words of praise 
for the old home of his youth so fondly loved. 
I was once in the dense canebrakes of Mis¬ 
sissippi in search of the elusive turkey, with a 
genuine swamp angel for a guide. When our 
barren hunt was over, I changed my shells, and 
by quick work succeeded in bringing down sev¬ 
eral woodcock. The “angel” rolled up his eyes 
at me and queried, “Is you a Yank?” Telling 
him in the words of the immortal Whittier that 
“I gloried in the name,” he exclaimed, “Dat’s 
right, boss; dat’s right. Jess like de one was 
here lass week. We done killed seben turks on 
dat sandbar when he tole me dat de shootin’ up 
norf was a heap better dan down here, and dat 
dere was right smart more fun in de pattige dan 
dere was in de turk.” Thinking that perhaps 
he did not quite understand why this should be 
so, I made everything as plain as possible' by 
explaining that the “pattige,” as he called it, was 
not only a gallinaceous bird, but a herbivorous 
and gramnivorous one as well, and that its pro¬ 
pulsive power was such that at times its momen¬ 
tum was phenomenal. I was intending to give 
him more of the life history of the bird, but the 
manner in which he received my remarks led 
me to stop speaking, for the way that counte¬ 
nance worked, and the whites of those eyes 
By S. T. HAMMOND (“SHADOW”) 
Copyright by Forest and Stream Publishing Co. 
dilated as the long words fell upon his ear was 
a study for an artist. When I stopped he looked 
up to me with an expression that plainly showed 
me that he was now convinced and ejaculated, 
“Well, bos, I s’peck dat Yank was ’bout right, 
and I reckon you ’uns must think a heap of 
dose pattige.” 
The love of that “Yank” for the sport to 
be found in the home of his childhood gave me 
a sympathetic feeling of brotherhood with the 
unknown stranger, and as I meandered through 
the tangled canebrake, thoughts of glorious days 
with the “pattige” among the forest-crowned 
hills of beloved New England came to cheer me, 
and soon the poignant feeling of regret that I 
a glorious and deeply interesting uncertainty as 
to just what bird it is that is crouching before 
your dog. The “partridge crank” grips his gun 
with firmer clasp as he walks in to flush the 
bird, fondly hoping to hear the thunderous roar 
of the swiftly beating pinions of his favorite. 
The man who best loves the royal woodcock ad¬ 
vances with eager step, dreaming of the weird 
music of that querulous whistle and the gentle 
swish of the silken wings so pleasing to his ear, 
while he whose choice is the gamy quail, with 
satisfied smile is reveling in thoughts of the 
tumultuous rush and roar of the startled bevy, 
and by faith he sees the air thickly dotted with 
the flashing forms of the little bird he loves so 
“THE BEST OF ALL GAME BIRDS.” 
had not held a trifle further ahead on that big 
gobbler mellowed down into a fading and rather 
pleasant remembrance of the great black living 
picture that had so swiftly crossed my path. 
This love for the shooting in New England 
is not merely love for the sport in itself, but is 
a far deeper, holier feeling than ever comes to 
him whose joy in the life of the field is inspired 
by success. A profound appreciation of the beau¬ 
tiful in nature, for the grandeur of our ever- 
new, ever-changing panorama of hill and moun¬ 
tain, of sequestered nook and lovely dell, of 
laughing brook and bubbling spring, of whisper¬ 
ing pine and stately oak, of balmy air and deep 
blue sky, creates and fosters this love until it 
permeates the whole being. 
There is an endless diversity of happenings, 
as well as surroundings, when in pursuit of our 
game birds that adds much to our enjoyment 
when summing up the pleasures of the day. In 
many sections different varieties of game are to 
be found in the same coverts, and there is often 
well. Who shall say that this glorious uncer¬ 
tainty is not almost the best of the whole? 
Surely not I, for I have enjoyed these pleasing 
sensations too many times to deny their power. 
I have a choice as to the bird I would flush, for 
my best favorite is that best of all game birds, 
the ruffed grouse; but I so love them all that I 
am cheerfully content with what the gods pro¬ 
vide, and am truly happy when either of the 
beautiful trio blesses me with its presence, and 
I spend no time in vain regret for a bygone “it 
might have been.” Scores of times have mine 
eyes been gladdened and my pulses quickened by 
simultaneous rises of two of these varieties, and 
fond recollections of many a glorious double of 
this nature often come back to me when in over¬ 
hauling memory’s storehouse I find myself again 
threading the leafy aisles of some favorite cover 
of the good old days. On several occasions I 
have flushed all three of these birds from one 
point, and with the assistance of a companion 
have gathered them all in. 
