Ill 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Father’s Repentance 
He Advocated the “No Play” Doctrine, and Lived to See the Folly of It 
W E were enjoying a reminiscent picking over 
of the bones of the Hunters’ Club ban¬ 
quet which we had attended in a central 
New York city the night before. 
My fellow traveler interrupted the savory men¬ 
tal feast with the grace of a gentleman of the 
old school, and, turning his chair from me, gazed 
intently out of the parlor-car window. 
“There’s the place!’’ he exclaimed. His kindly 
old face warmed into boyish enthusiasm. And, 
like a boy, he actually pointed. “Over there, 
near that clump of bushes, just this side of the 
other railroad, I shot my first snipe!” 
Then realizing the breach of manners which 
his index finger was committing, Dr. Totham 
closed it quickly and substituted an animated 
wave of the hand for the unsanctioned point. 
Turning again to me, there was a mischievous 
twinkle in his merry blue eyes, like that of a 
lad who has a joke, either upon you or upon 
himself, which he is not yet ready to divulge. 
Upon my inquiring look the jovial doctor blushed, 
as one convinced that his secret has been guessed. 
Apparently to gain time, that he might decide 
whether to confide in me or not, he remarked, 
“The other railroad was not there then. This 
long stretch of moist meadows between the two 
roads was in the old days mostly swamp—and, 
my conscience, what a place for ducks, geese, 
snipe and woodcock! Yes, a wonderful haunt 
of wild fowl, particularly in the spring.” 
The bar of reticence was now down and the 
gate of confession open. 
“I must tell you,” drawled Dr. Totham, almost 
in the whisper of the sick-room, “we had no laws 
against spring shooting when I was a boy—ex¬ 
cept on woodcock.” 
The speaker hesitated, with a gesture of apol¬ 
ogy for not proceeding with his narrative. Then 
as he started to speak again he flushed guiltily. 
In our exchange of glances we realized that we 
were both recalling how we had applauded the 
banquet sentiments in favor of conserving the 
bird life of the American continent, the chief 
plank of that platform being anti-spring shoot¬ 
ing. 
low passengers were near enough to overhear, 
Looking around to see whether any of our 
fellow passengers were near enough to overhear, 
and being satisfied that the rumble of the train 
was a sure safeguard against anything so calami¬ 
tous, the veteran of the chase put his hand on 
my arm. “Can you believe it? When I shot 
that snipe one misty April morning sixty years 
ago, I thought 1 had killed a zvoodcock!” 
Laughing commiseratingly at himself, and at 
the same time inviting my sympathy for such 
abysmal ignorance, the doctor unbosomed him¬ 
self : “You see, in those days we had a law 
prohibiting the taking of woodcock in the spring, 
but not snipe and ducks. I thought I was a 
law breaker. I looked about me furtively, and 
seeing no one, I thrust the pretty blood-mottled 
bird into the top of my boot. Then I started 
for home across lots. If ever guilty conscience 
By M. H. Hoover. 
feared ‘every bush an officer,’ it was mine that 
dismal day.” 
The doctor’s reminiscent mirth changed into 
mock sadness, more amusing even than his real 
merriment, as he continued : “Father was wait¬ 
ing for me as I sneaked through the barn-yard 
gate. Father, you must know, frowned on all 
fishing and hunting. There was always lots to 
do on the big farm, and he thought sport of all 
kinds was a waste of time. When he took hold 
of me to assist me to the woodshed, my foot 
caught in a brush pile that I had tried to go 
through as a shorter route to the house and my 
more sympathetic mother. Of course, off came 
my boot, and the dead bird sprawled out on the 
path.” 
Laughing until tears, as real as those of the 
luckless hunting incident, sprang into his eyes, 
the narrator continued: “Father stooped to pick 
up my boot, and I grabbed my game. Thrusting 
the dread trophy under his nose, I stammered, 
‘Father, don’t have me arrested— But I guess 
you never shot a woodcock with as fine a bill 
as that!’ 
“Father took the bird from my trembling hand,” 
the doctor chuckled, “and I caught the shade 
of a smile on his face as he turned from me, 
saying, ‘Pshaw, you young wooden-head—that 
ain’t no woodcock. It’s a sure-enough snipe!’ 
“ ‘Why, father,’ I exclaimed in surprise, ‘how 
do you know? You never hunted!’ 
“‘Go to the house, you shirk,’ father inter¬ 
rupted sternly, ‘and help your mother with the 
churnin’.’ ” 
With confidential earnestness the doctor added, 
“Somehow, mother didn’t seem much surprised 
when I informed her that father knew the dif¬ 
ference between a snipe and a woodcock. 
“She saw him coming toward the house just 
then, but had time to remark, ‘Well, Sammy, 
perhaps when he was young he liked to hunt as 
well as you, but he has a big farm and a large 
family to care for now, and he believes such 
things don’t pay. Perhaps they don’t, but, Sam¬ 
my. I do like trout and snipe as a change from 
salt pork. And. maybe, if you are a good boy 
with your tasks and lessons, on rainy days he’ll 
let you get me some. And, Sammy, I do believe, 
my boy, without disrespect toward your good 
and kind father, that all work and no play makes 
Jack a dull boy.’ ” 
Dr. Totham again looked out of the window. 
With as near an approach to a sigh as his happy 
disposition would permit, he remarked: “Over 
in that valley where you see the factories, we 
used to have splendid quail shooting. I bagged 
five there one afternoon. Father was recover¬ 
ing from a long sickness and mother thought 
he needed some delicacy to tempt his appetite. 
She broiled the birds with strips of bacon. 
Father got the odor from the kitchen and sat 
up for the first time in weeks. When he had 
eaten four of the hot birds, our little Jim sug¬ 
gested that he would like a taste. Now, mother 
was always thoughtful of father’s comfort and 
happiness, so she said reprovingly, ‘Run away, 
Jimmy, pa's pick!’ And pa picked the last bird 
down to the bones. When 1 was going to bed 
that night, I heard father say to mother, ‘Maria, 
I am a well man—those birds tasted like old 
times.’ ” 
The white-aproned George careened along the 
aisle, admonishing, “Last caii in the dining car.” 
“Not for me,” twinkled the doctor. “Not after 
that game dinner last night, and the memories 
of quail that come deliciously back from the 
past.” 
He watched the porter out of sight, and pres¬ 
ently said, “I left the old farm and in time be¬ 
gan the practice of medicine in a growing city. 
For eight years I never saw the country, except 
for a day or two to visit my parents. I devoted 
myself heart and soul to my profession. The 
strain was too much and I was taken with a 
fever. When the doctors got me on my feet 
again, I decided that I had been a very foolish 
man. I resolved thenceforth I would take a 
rest of at least one month of every twelve, seek¬ 
ing recreation with my rod and gun. As soon 
as I could walk after my illness, I headed for 
the farm. Mother had been laid to rest, but 
father and a housekeeper still ran the old place. 
“Father was glad to see me. He had visited 
me a few times at my city home, but always 
became restless after a day or two, and with the 
excuse that the farm needed looking after, has¬ 
tened back to the old homestead. Father looked 
me over on my arrival and evidently was anxious 
about my health, yet he said little on the sub¬ 
ject. I volunteered the explanation that the doc¬ 
tors told me I had overworked, advising me to 
take a month’s vacation fishing and hunting. 
Father showed vexation at that, exclaiming, 
‘Humph ! Doctors don’t know everything!’ 
“The day after my arrival at the old homestead, 
while searching for some old clothes, I found a 
smooth-bore shotgun. It had been a rifle once, 
but had been bored out for the use of shot. 
I took the ancient gun to father, where he sat 
by the window, and smiling down into his stern 
face, I inquired, ‘Where did this come from?’ 
“Father looked up at me somewhat sheepishly, 
and after hemming and hawing, jerked out: ‘It’s 
the old gun your grandfather gave me. I had 
it fixed for shot. The squirrels steal my but¬ 
ternuts, and I have to tend to the pesky thieves!’ 
Then father turned to his book with the earnest¬ 
ness which indicated that the incident was closed. 
“Later I had the audacity to go behind the 
returns on that matter and consulted the house¬ 
keeper. She swept her apron to her face, and 
with an apologetic smile, simpered, ‘Butternuts, 
shucks! The squirrels don’t bother ’em much, 
but the old gentleman goes into the woods after 
’em like a regular sport. Why, Mr. Samuel, I 
have known your pa to go huntin’ even when the 
'tater diggin’ an’ the corn huskin’ was behin’ 
han’, an’ the help needed bossin’ mighty bad. 
An’ rabbits, too! We have rabbit an' squirrel 
pot-pie ’bout twict a week. Jest the day before 
