40 
FOREST AND STREAM 
July 13, 1912 
But watch those three little black specks 
close to the surface rapidly approaching. See 
them flicker and swerve? They are birds; they 
are the vanguard of an army of quail. It is 
Sindici who points them out to us, and follow¬ 
ing the rules of sport they are his when they 
land. Gradually they increase in size, until their 
wings and heads are plainly discernible. Then 
they reach shore and plunge headlong into a 
clump of reeds. They are tired out; the journey 
has been a long one. 
Sindici sees them drop, but waits a few 
minutes to allow them to settle, then motions 
to his dog to search and follow him over. Brill 
has not been asleep and goes for the quarry as 
straight as an arrow. In a moment he falls to 
a point, edges up, and crouches immobile. His 
master walks up and kicks the tall grass. Imme¬ 
diately a little brown beauty arises in a flurry 
and strikes swiftly inland, but up goes the gun, 
a sharp report, and it tumbles into the sand. At 
the noise of the shot the other two hurriedly 
take flight, but only one gets away, the rearmost 
crumples up suddenly when the infallible sixteen 
speaks, and our companion returns with the first 
prizes of the day. 
It is Cerchiari who marks the next arrival, 
a lone traveler coming straight for us with the 
velocity of the wild. Totally oblivious of our 
presence it passes within ten yards without shift¬ 
ing its course and heads for the hills but the 
lieutenant has arisen, and at the crack of his 
gun the bird is flung to the ground. 
A flock of about a dozen is spotted soon 
after, again by Sindici, and it spreads in some 
tamarack bushes not a hundred yards away. 
“Come,” says the veteran; “there are enough 
for us all,” so we stroll over together and ac¬ 
count for six of the birds. 
Not another quail is sighted for over an 
hour and by 6 o’clock Garofalo stirs himself. 
“Looks like ah empty day,” he says. ‘I 
think I'll work the brush to the point and turn 
in. Who’s with me?” 
I volunteer and we set out side by side, the 
dogs quartering before us, while Sindici and 
Cerchiari start in the opposite direction. Game 
is scarce, however, and 8 o'clock finds us back 
at the lodge with less than a dozen pair to the 
four guns. Breakfast number two awaits us and 
we do justice to it with an appetite to which 
the tramp has given a keen edge. 
Then Sindici unhitched a fishing seine from 
the wall and proceeds to overhaul it. 
“Don’t forget that we are to have guests to 
dinner,” he warns us. I'll undertake to provide 
the fish course—I saw a lot of white mullet in 
the creek this morning—but you will have to 
attend to the rest. If Garofalo will take a run 
to Astura for lobsters, and you two will up¬ 
root some dandelion for salad and gather a few 
flowers for table decorations, we'll be ready for 
them. Ciccio has already gone to the woods to 
pick strawberries.” 
The dinner party in question was one of 
many we enjoyed. We held open house and it 
was not infrequent, for us to receive notice from 
some of our friends that they would drop in on 
us either by yacht or by carriage on such a day. 
At times we had as many as twenty men and 
women to cater for. Luckily we did not have 
to look for provisions. The sea and the brook 
gave us many delicious varieties of fish, and 
lobsters and clams were always to be had at 
Astura, about a mile away. Quail we seldom 
failed to shoot, and there was our chicken coop 
to fall back upon in case of no pass, while salad 
and dessert were provided by the nearby fields 
and woods. 
The various duties allotted us on this occas¬ 
ion did not prevent our hunting at the same 
time. Sindici had his gun beside him while he 
fished, and kept his eye open for late arrivals. 
Garofalo beat the brush all the way to Astura 
and back, and Cerchiari and I allowed our dogs 
to run around at will while we were busy in 
the fields, casting an occasional glance at them 
and running up if we saw one pointed. 
To a stranger some of the customs obtaining 
at the seashore during the quail season are odd 
and interesting. For instance, a miss, never mind 
by whom, is generally saluted by every sports¬ 
man in the vicinity, and when the place is 
crowded, the scene is most amusing. As soon 
as a dog falls to a point, everyone stops to watch, 
and it may be imagined the nerve that it takes 
not to get rattled in the face of such a critical 
audience. Even good shots often suffer an at¬ 
tack of stage fright, with the result that both 
barrels are pumped ineffectively. The din which 
follows is indescribable. From almost every 
pocket comes a tin horn, the discordant blasts 
of which rend the air, while from many throats 
issue at top voice the stentorean cry “p-a-s-s-a- 
p-o-r-t-o,” indicating that the lucky flyer has re¬ 
ceived its passport to the dead line, beyond which 
shooting is forbidden. 
The most curious and entertaining spectacles, 
however, are the executions of bad sportsmen 
which occur once or twice at least each year. In 
the eye of the Italian it is an unpardonable sin 
to try to win glory by padding the bag; that is, 
by reporting a larger number of birds than one 
has killed. Let a man be convicted of the crime 
and he is virtually ostracized from the fraternity. 
When a gunner is suspected of “flying,” the 
term applied to padding the bag, either his boy 
is bribed to keep tabs on him, or a committee 
approaches him afield, and after inquiries con¬ 
cerning his luck asks him without ceremony to 
produce the birds. A regular offender is soon 
caught, for the disease is chronic, with some, and 
then the fun begins. 
A tribunal is immediately formed; judge, 
jury and attorneys are appointed and court is 
held. The place is jammed when the case comes 
up for examination, for the battle of lawyers is 
usually extremely witty and amusing, even 
though the culprit is condemned in advance, no 
action being taken until undisputable proof is in 
the hands of the accusers. Eventually the death 
sentence is passed. 
The execution follows in due course, the 
date being set for the first clear day on which 
there is no pass, and it generally takes place on 
the village square. It is an imposing ceremony. 
All sportsmen in the neighborhood are in¬ 
vited to participate and most of them do. They 
collect in force, in full regalia, and form in pro¬ 
cession. Then, led by a band playing funeral 
marches, and followed by a working cart on 
which is seated a mannikin of straw, bearing 
the name of the condemned in large letters, they 
solemnly parade through the streets. Useless to 
say, by the time the village square is reached 
the populace has swarmed into line. 
In the center of the square the procession 
comes to a stand. From the top of the cart a 
herald reads aloud the findings of the court. The 
effigy of the criminal is stood up against a wall, 
and order is given for the firing squad to form. 
Amid impressive silence the command to fire 
rings out, a dotfble volley awakens the echoes, 
and the deed is done. Ready hands bundle the 
sprawling scarecrow into the wagon again, and 
thus it is borne to a nearby field, where a pyre 
has already been built. The match is applied, 
flames rise high in the air, and in a few minutes 
sportsman’s hut. 
