786 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Dec. 20, 1913. 
That First Bird Dog 
By FRED O. COPELAND 
D OGS may come and dogs may go, but the 
memory of that first bird dog will go on 
forever, influencing me in every future 
purchase. First impressions do strike in deep 
.and when I think of the many devout sportsmen 
struggling with their first bird dogs my heart 
/goes out to them in their many disappointments 
wishing them success as by faith they see their 
pupil freeze to a point just behind the birds on 
many a future October morning. Nearly all lov¬ 
ers of the grouse and woodcock have at times 
longed for a dog. The dog is a positive neces¬ 
sity, for the prowler of the woodcock coverts 
and the lonely partridge hunter must needs look 
to his dog for his only sign of activity for long 
stretches of woodland. It would be interesting 
to know what per cent, of sportsmen train their 
own dogs. I hope it would reach into the high 
figures, for certainly such a man making the pur¬ 
chase of a trained dog in after days is in a far 
tbetter position to work and take care of it. More¬ 
over, nearly anyone will admit that a little point¬ 
er or setter pup will bring the sunshine into the 
darkest room. No doubt in the light of other 
days, if I am permitted to walk the autumn 
woods for a goodly number of years, I shall look 
back on these “words of wisdom” with a smile, 
yet I feel sure some may read these lines and 
gain a little comfort and satisfaction thereby. 
For years I had played the role of the lonely 
partridge hunter. Not lonely in the full sense 
of the word, for many birds have fallen to my 
lot and the autumn days are never lonely, but 
there came a day one Fall when I accompanied a 
friend and his pointer and it opened a new world 
to me. Many a day since I have stood with 
thumping heart and bulging eyes, knowing well 
a bird lay a few feet ahead in a little corner and 
have seen that trembling form of liver and white 
creep forward to a point. Knowing well that the 
sport was in the quality rather than the quantity, 
I resolved to buy a dog. 
For two months every mail out and into my 
town carried a letter to or from a seller of bird 
dogs. For no reason at all I wanted a black and 
white English setter, and expected, of course, I 
could get one. It gradually dawned on me that 
if I could get anything in the way of a dog 
at all I would be lucky. I was getting so I could 
call off every dog owner in New England by 
their first names much as a base ball fan enjoys 
leaning back and running off the major league 
players without a second’s hesitation. During 
this time I could stand up anywhere, night or 
day, and quote passages from the four or five 
best books on training hunting dogs. I was get¬ 
ting so I would follow a dog no matter what 
the breed as far as it would let me. Withal, the 
Whole kingdom of canines interested me greatly. 
At last I ran down a little lady puppy in one 
of our New England states. I could have the 
pedigree if I wanted it. I didn’t. I wanted a 
companion on the hunt. Of course, she would 
find birds—hadn’t her blood been kept pure for 
time out of mind? 1 was finally advised she was 
six months old, of the small breed of pointers. 
liver and white, and would be shipped on a cer¬ 
tain morning and woyld reach me dead or alive the 
following day before time had a good firm grip 
on it. The great day arrived. Needless to say, 
I was on hand, and hardly had the train snorted 
in when I was hammering at the express car for 
my dog. I was looking for a crate larger than 
a grape basket. There was no dog, that was 
plain to be seen, but as I turned away disap¬ 
pointed a hail brought me back, and sure enough 
there was a shivering little object in a tiny crate 
looking up at me with great brown eyes asking 
for help if there was any of that commodity still 
left in this big round world. After “words on 
both sides” the company would deliver the dog 
before sending out each parcel. In the mean¬ 
time the object made it plainly understood she 
wanted freedom or death. She was an Ameri¬ 
can. 
I had been warned to have a piece of corn 
bread in hand when I took her out of the crate 
that she might come to me. I must not go to 
her, and thereafter she would always look on me 
as her master. Therefore with a piece of corn 
bread in one hand and a hammer in the other 
I stood in my cellar and saluted the crate. I 
let the dog out of the box; she came to me, 
accepted the bread, acknowledged me as master 
according to directions, and went on a still hunt 
of the cellar. I had also been warned not to 
let her get frightened at anything. In an evil 
moment, as she was on her nine hundredth round 
of the cellar, she ran foul of an old iron poker 
hanging on a post and, although she only brushed 
it slightly, it let out a sad clang. The dog shinned 
to the top of the cellar stairs, and, lifting one 
paw, sent up to high heaven a series of screams 
that would lift the hair on any human. I tasted 
lemon just as you will when a piece of chalk 
makes an off-key noise on a blackboard. I was 
learning. Surely the pointer breed of dogs was 
as full of riddles as a fiddle of tunes, and this 
I verified again and again as long as I owned 
her. 
I christened her “Biddie.” She soon won 
my heart with her winning ways, and many were 
the romps we had together during the winter 
months on the south slopes where the ground lay 
bare and the birds came out to enjoy the warmth. 
One Spring day we came to a railroad track. 
I had supposed she had forgotten her long ride 
when she was shipped to me, but she had seen 
the enemy, she placed her tail where it would 
be least in the way, heaven lent her wings, and 
the way she used them must have made her donor 
sigh for a like pair to take him to the celestial 
patent office. I wended my way home, found 
the dog overjoyed that I had not been killed by 
the Montreal express. Together we went back 
and had a good long look at the track, so long, 
in fact, that I contracted a cold that I would 
have given the price of the dog to be rid of. 
This was charged up to dog training. 
In the late Spring “Biddie” developed dis¬ 
temper. I won’t describe it. Let me say right 
here my next dog will be guaranteed against that. 
Only careful nursing and better food than I was 
eating pulled her through. It was late Summer 
before the weakness left her stern propellers. 
I had chosen a good book on training. It 
was clear, straight to the point and made training 
a pleasure. I really think the dog enjoyed a large 
part of it after she had learned a command or 
two. By the middle of September “Biddie” would 
“heel” anywhere, stop to order in the woods on 
the instant, “go on” at the word, “down” (I pre¬ 
ferred it to “charge”) in the woods or out; 
moreover, she had roaded old birds to a point 
and seemed anxious to hunt. I had taught her 
to retrieve by the “force system,” and she en¬ 
joyed hunting out and bringing to me anything 
I might hide. She had grown handsome and 
attracted attention wherever she went. She was 
nearly all white, with the exception of a dark 
liver patch over each eye and ear, a small dia¬ 
mond on the forehead, a small patch between the 
shoulders and one at the root of the tail. One 
would ‘think I was on the border of fairyland 
wi'th the bird season just opened and a trim 
young pointer to work the virgin cover for me, 
but such was not the case. Gun-shy in red let¬ 
ters was written all over that dog. She was of 
such a shy disposition she dreaded the strong 
light of day like a grass widow. I had done 
everything to prevent it. I had walloped a large 
wash boiler with a piece of hard wood till the 
