FOREST AND STREAM 
683 
A Mississippi Delta Quail Hunt 
While living in a delta town on the Mississippi 
river in 1887 my best friend and room mate 
invited me often to visit, for over Sunday, his 
hospitable home twenty-eight miles in the coun¬ 
try. Among the bright spots in life’s retrospection, 
Chatham, on the lake, has ever been that to which 
I often enjoy looking back as one of the brightest. 
My chum’s father owned a large cotton plan¬ 
tation and home on a beautiful lake. The two 
sons and daughter were worthy representa¬ 
tives of a good old southern family, and the 
charming mother seemed never more happy than 
when entertaining a house full of young friends. 
Many were the tallyho drives and moonlight 
sails on the lake, where pretty girls, guitars and 
singing humored the taste of the sentimentally 
inclined. Pretty girls, flowers and sweet singing 
birds were ever associated, in my mind, as being 
the brightest attractions bestowed by a gener¬ 
ous Dame Nature, to relieve most of life’s 
gloomy shadows—and dispel the grouches from 
those who try to imitate the melancholy of the 
old owls that sit away from the sunlight—in the 
shadow of the tree. 
But to leave the girls and the roses for a 
time and get on to the bird trails. I made the 
acquaintance, on one of my visits to Chatham, of 
a young nimrod relative of the family, who was 
a great quail hunter, with the hospitable habit 
of inviting every new acquaintance similarly in¬ 
clined to join him in an all day contest at shoot¬ 
ing. I accepted an invitation to join him on the 
first favorable day that I could get away from 
business. 
I was always more enthusiastic for the sport 
than for a contest at scoring, for while I had 
handled a bird gun most of my active life, I 
was too impulsive and erratic to make a first 
class quail shot, but I offset the defect consider¬ 
ably by being a hard hunter, and made many 
chances for shooting. Sometimes I was inclined 
to blame the gun for inexcusable misses, though 
never employed the excuse given by an English 
city guest—one of the sports who enjoy ring 
shooting most at the clubs, when he can have 
a good audience—invited to shoot pheasants by 
a friend who owned a good preserve. He made 
many shots that did not connect, and when his 
host jokingly inquired how many birds he had, 
he replied, “Not a blooming one, and I’m quite 
sure that it is because I haven’t my .grouse suit 
on; don’t cher know. If we were shooting rab¬ 
bits instead I could do some nice work, I’m sure.” 
The quail hunt was “pulled off” on one of those 
balmy November days when it is warm enough 
to perspire freely. We took a setter and a pointer, 
not very well broken, but hard hunters with fine 
noses. The country was level, but the cover of 
the fiercest variety, for as the frosts are never 
severe enough to kill vegetation at that season 
the thick undergrowth of all varieties makes hard 
work for hunter and dog. There were birds 
In greatest profusion, and I do not remember 
having seen such enormous coveys, frequently 
made up of two sizes of young birds. And please 
accept the assurance that they were classed 
By R. H. McNair, M. D. 
among the shrewdest that ever practiced the foxy 
tricks. To me their ability to get away so often 
and effectively constituted one of the chief at¬ 
tractions in hunting them (if the man with the 
gun is not a game hog or pot hunter, of course). 
A large covey was struck upon reaching the 
cover, and we dismounted and approached the 
dogs, the setter pointing the covey, and the pointer 
backing him very prettily. Both “froze” as stiff 
as marble. The birds were hidden in rank grass 
and cat-tails. From the first flush one bird apiece 
dropped. Upon following them into the swamps, 
it was quite apparent that they were safe—most 
of them—the only chances being for poor snap 
shots. But I soon discovered the fact that my 
companion was not fond of taking the briars, 
and then I had quite an advantage of him in that 
it was not customary to count shots. I thought 
that I would get more than he would, for he 
was a much better and steadier shot, but he pre¬ 
ferred to pick them. The first bird flew out of 
The Birds Were Hidden in Rank Grass and 
Cat-tails. 
a bunch of thick vines and I killed it by shoot¬ 
ing away a good part of the small tangle. Upon 
finding that the runners were scattered in every 
direction we returned to the horses with about 
seven birds. The old setter seemed most dis¬ 
posed to make up to strangers, so he became 
my ally early in the game. 
The next covey was found after a short ride, 
with both dogs on the firing line, and from the 
flush we both dropped doubles. My last was a 
winged bird, which, after a hard run with the 
old setter, got into a hole and I had t® lose it. 
The covey had pitched into a fairly good cover 
of sedge-briars and small cotton-wood sapling. 
The first bird got up before the pointer, crossed 
me, and was missed clean. My neighbor wiped 
my eyes, and hollered, “Send me another.” I 
spat in my hand (figuratively speaking), and fol¬ 
lowed a point ahead of the old setter. Two birds 
flushed and I dropped both. The other fellow 
was following runners with the pointer and I 
heard two shots after my two. 
The setter next found a single bird and I 
flushed it and shot. The bird towered for 
fifty feet and dropped, shot in the head. 
Then we struck the trail of a wild runner which 
led us a chase out into the cotton field, and 
flushing wild, tried to return to the cover. But 
I made a leading shot and stopped it. I met 
my nimrod at the horses with five more birds 
and he had six. Our next covey was pointed 
on the edge of another swamp, and I have never 
seen a larger bunch of birds in any covey. Their 
flush sounded like distant thunder in the sum¬ 
mer time. I tried to make it an invariable habit 
to spot the first bird that arose for my target, 
but when I shot the first barrel three dropped, 
and one for the second shot. My neighbor got 
two, and tried to guy me for potting them on 
the wing. I replied that if he would teach his 
quail to fly without getting tangled up he might 
have more for subsequent hunts. 
After picking up our birds I piled right into 
the swamp after the covey which began flush¬ 
ing wild from trees and thick swamp vines. My 
neighbor swung around on the edge, and I heard 
him shoot twice and cuss quite forcibly. The 
old setter and I raced the Bobs around the 
swamp at a lively pace. The old chap had a true 
nose and never ran over a bird that he could 
get up with; finally we came to a little open strip, 
and he pointed just on the edge where the chaps, 
being closely pursued by the old dog, had hidden 
in the grass. There I got the prettiest double 
of the entire day, the birds going in almost di¬ 
rectly opposite courses, but one flushing just 
ahead of the other. I dropped it and whirled 
half around to get a fine straight away shot, and 
dropped my bird at forty paces. 
While that strip of swamp seemed alive with 
birds, it was almost like looking for a needle 
in a hay stack to get them up with the dog, 
though they had not been slow in getting up of 
their own accord. Such hunting is trying and 
unsatisfactory. I started back toward the horses, 
and as I was stepping out of the swamp I almost 
trod upon a bird which had run back toward 
the open. It flushed and tried to swing around 
the end of the wood, but I managed to stop it 
just before it met my neighbor coming toward 
me around heavy undergrowth. He had heard 
the flush and was all ready to give it a warm 
reception, but was disappointed to see it drop 
twenty feet in front of him. 
We found a cool spot to eat luncheon and 
rest ourselves and dogs. We had, at the noon hour, 
twenty-seven birds, and I was two counts ahead 
of the old “Chappie.” We finished a hearty 
feed, fed the dogs, and loafed until two o’clock. 
Meantime I had found a hole of clear water which 
furnished refreshment for the inner man and for 
the old setter to get a good soak to cool him 
off. He swam around and enjoyed it immensely. 
The first covey after luncheon was pointed 
near a field of oat stubble, and flushed from 
a long point before the dogs could get on to 
them. Hence we could only content ourselves 
with marking them. They flew a long flight, but 
pitched in open cover. When the dogs pointed 
the wild rascals got up almost together again, 
but we stopped four and followed them over a 
wide territory, with indifferent success. As we were 
going to the last lighting place, a wide ditch 
