Jan. 17, 1914. 
FOREST AND STREAM 
75 
similar from the rest. Finding grain and 
forage and winter shelter about the shocks 
of corn, stacks of hay and piles of threshed 
straw, the birds have returned in winter and loi¬ 
tered in the settled country, raising broods which 
were loath to leave their nesting and rearing 
grounds. This condition was bound to come. 
Though years ago, we predicted the destruction 
of the prairie chicken as it flew before the break¬ 
ing plow, we could not foresee, at least the major 
portion of us could not, that in time the birds 
would wing their way back over the border 
farms. The growing crops alford excellent pro¬ 
tection to the newly hatched broods. Thousands 
and thousands of acres of the corn that is shuck¬ 
ed in the field gives cover to the birds that once 
hid in the tall grasses of the watered flats or 
meadows. And being hatched amid these con¬ 
genial surroundings the birds love to stick to 
the milk-and-honey lands of their birth. In the 
spring they retire to the rougher grounds, of 
which there are plenty, where they do their 
drumming and fighting for mates and finally 
pair, to return to the level spacious fields or 
hay-lands again for nesting. 
Many birds are still in the raw lands. But 
when winter comes and the wild berries of the 
sandy lands give out, they unfold their wings 
like the cackling grouse and come to the land 
of plenty. A great many of them stay and 
mate and rear their young, which the grouse 
do not. 
A heavy morning dew provides water for the 
covies for a day. If the weather is hot and the 
winds are high, they sail to the clear creeks of 
the valleys, creeks that wind in and out among 
the sparse willows and plum-thickets and swale- 
grass, and can almost invariably be depended on 
by man and beast. It is along these creeks that 
the hay-lands lie, and haying-time following 
harvest, the birds have the stubble for resort 
when driven from their grassy retreats. With 
proper care, conservative shooting, and the elimi¬ 
nation of the man who kills to be killing, the 
chickens have increased, and should still in¬ 
crease. The waste of the fields will support 
ten to a hundred times their number. 
On the way through this kind of country to 
the valley, we passed other rigs and cars all 
bound for covers and fields that the drivers 
thought were more fertile with chickens than 
those at home. Very few farms were posted. 
Pete assured us some good shooting. I doubt¬ 
ed, for the first day of the season had always 
been my Jonah day, and a party of more than 
three, a blight on good sport. We were eight! 
But then those who granted us their convey¬ 
ances and hospitality, and knowledge of the 
country and the birds, were the guardians of the 
flocks and covies about, and none had better 
right to them than they. On the narrow they 
would all be at work in the fields again and 
we would have the run of the country for a 
few days. Every one was generous, and kind- 
heartedly wanted to put us on the trail of birds 
they had either just seen, or had seen the night 
before. Fun, some shooting, hilarity and a lunch 
such as those splendid farm-wives know how 
to piovide would be enough to make he day 
enjoyable, anyway. Incidentally, we shooters 
from town were going to get the lay of the 
land and plan our forays into some sections we 
had not before visited. 
Crossing the watershed between the valley we 
were leaving, and the one we entered, a great 
stretch of fine farming country was presented 
to us. On either side of Quail Creek were 
broad fields of stubble and corn and hay-land. 
The further slopes of the valley gently ascended 
to rough hills that Pete called “drumming hills.” 
Without doubt they reminded me of the ap¬ 
proaches to the great sandhills in western Ne¬ 
braska, once the famous breeding ground of the 
pinnated grouse or prairie chicken, and the home 
of the slaughtering market-hunter. Compared 
to the tilled lands in the valley these hills were 
too rough to be farmed, and remained for the 
chickens to claim them, or to give a nibble of 
sustenance to some stray cow or steer. 
Three of us- volunteered to leave the wagon 
before we reached the creek, and begin the 
march up the valley. Taking a last pull at the 
watering, and making sure we understood where 
the carry-all was to meet us, off we set. Nate 
and George carried guns, while I handled a 
headstrong dog that required the attention of 
one man until he “shot his wad,” by running 
himself down in the heat. 
The day was growing uncomfortably warm. 
Over the corn the heat quivered and rose shim¬ 
mering into the air. Though the breeze had 
freshened, it failed to cool us any. And care¬ 
fully covering the stubble, grass land, pastures, 
we failed to locate a bird. The dog became 
disheartened and dropped to heel. He was soft 
and George joked us about him, comparing his 
chicken-finding usefulness to that of his collie 
at home. Beyond the creek we could see the 
others scouring the fields. 
“Every bird is in the corn to-day,” Nate cried 
over to me, as he strode along the high grass 
of a drainage ditch that carried off a surplusage 
of wetness to the creek. 
But as I was about to open my mouth in agree¬ 
ment with him, three birds rose immediately in 
front of him, and he missed two, giving the 
third a heavy charge of shot that dropped her 
almost in front of one of the other party across 
the creek. She flew a good quarter mile! Then 
while we stood gaping, another pair of birds 
jumped to wing just across the ditch within 
nice range. Nate’s gun was empty, so the birds 
sailed off to a large pasture on the left of us, 
one going down among grass and thistles, and 
the other dropping ’mongst golden rod on the 
side hill. 
We followed them, but could not get up the 
one that dropped on the slope. Either it had 
run across the crest of the hill into the swale 
grass on the further side, or it laid close in the 
golden rod fearing to get up. We gave it up as 
the dog was unable to locate even the least bit 
of a scent. Then into the thistle-patch we pushed, 
quietly, shoving the dog ahead. Nate had given 
me the gun, so chagrined was he at his perform¬ 
ance when the little covey first got up. Beyond 
the thistles in a coolish clump of grass the dog 
swung, and came to point. Before he stiffened 
a bird sailed into the hot air. It was in beauti¬ 
ful range, and had I missed, I would have been 
ready to have gone home and given up the balance 
of the trip. A second bird boomed into the air 
out of range. Across the valley it sped, and as 
our shooting had claimed the attention of those 
beyond the creek, they saw the coming bird and 
marked it down in the stubble easily. Pete tried 
to “play Indian” on it and yet hazarded a shot 
as the bird rose out of range. Toward us it 
came, almost following the first line it had made 
and we expected it to set its wings and scuttle 
into the grass. But as it neared, it began flying 
higher and higher, stretched its neck, and with 
a squawk fell to earth for it had been mortally 
wounded. Pete had vindicated himself! 
The wagon hove into sight in a stubble field 
about a mile from us, and we made for it. Nils 
always had a jug of fresh water no matter where 
we found him. That is part of a good driver’s 
business, and he knew where to meet us when 
we were “petered out” with fatigue. Somehow 
he always hit it. 
“Throw the dog in, boys,” commanded Pete, 
“and we’ll go up in the shade of the cotton¬ 
woods by the little schoolhouse, and have lunch.” 
We tossed five birds in the wagon bed in the 
shade of the seats and climbed in, shoving John, 
wilted and sapless, under the rear seat where 
the lid of an ammunition box held a copious 
drink of cool water. 
“If this isn’t Dog Heaven on a hot day,” John’s 
eyes asked, “what is?” 
And lolling there in the cool shade the lunch 
boxes and pails were opened and we drew cuts 
to see who should have the extra piece of apple 
pie. I snapped a picture, just as Bert reached 
into the commissary for his second handfull of 
Mrs. Nates peanut-drop cookies. We jollied 
Hermann about his little Bedegada, teased George 
about Inga, and kidded Nils about a blue-eyed 
lass named Natalia as we ate. 
“Well, what’s next?” Nate asked Pete, ironi¬ 
cally. “You’ve helped us kill al lthe chickens in 
WE CLIMBED IN, SHOVING JOHN UNDER THE REAR SEAT. 
