524 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Oct. 26, 1912 
point, for in a heavily weeded stubble nearby 
we were to begin the true day’s hunt. That 
particular field was birdless, and we crossed the 
patch of weedy flax, forded the drainage ditch 
that emptied into the creek and went into a 
piece of oat stubble again. Not a breath of air 
was stirring. The stubble was damp. We were 
all wet to the knees from the long grass we 
trekked through. Jimmy had on low shoes and 
refused to wade the ditch, so he stood and 
watched us. The head of the dog went down 
again. His nose detected something familiar, 
and he began roading a covey of young birds. 
As the stubble was so scanty in this field, we 
did not expect a bird, thinking they had been 
feeding there, and then moved back to some 
other point as the morning wore on. Rather 
quickly John stiffened to a point and the lash¬ 
ing of his great tail ceased. He was immovable. 
Yet we could see no birds and went ahead care¬ 
fully to give the dog a chance. Then from be¬ 
neath our feet rose eight young birds, frightened 
and anxious to be off. They made for the corn 
east of the field, and when they were a fair 
distance off, two guns began to decimate their 
ranks. 
Only four birds fell to six shots and a crip¬ 
ple dropped a little way off too weak to fly fur¬ 
ther. John rushed in to chase the flying birds, 
and one of us sprang to catch the cord that con¬ 
nected with his choke collar. The other tried to 
mark the crippled bird and began to gather up 
the fallen chickens. And after order had been 
somewhat restored we found that neither of us 
had definitely located the cripple, nor could the 
dog. Behind us came the cry of Jimmy who 
waved to us from beyond the ditch. He had it 
marked for a surety, though neither of us could 
make out what he was trying to impart. I went 
back and carried him across the ditch and he 
found the cripple, now dead, just as John came 
up to him and made the point on his bird. 
And in the fracas none of us save Jimmy 
had marked down the remainder of the covey. 
They had dropped in the corn up the long slope 
of the divide. It was useless to pursue them, 
anyway we might leave them for seed. In the 
distance came Jack with his bolting pointer, the 
latter in leash. By the time they came up to 
us that dog had been :hed to a hundred feet 
of cotton cord and acted as if he were thoroughly 
subdued by the disgrace. 
The cloudy sky began to give way to the 
sun above, and being wet we loaded pipes and 
kidded Jack over his field trial dog. A good 
half mile to the south a large covey of birds 
swung over a field of corn and dropped into the 
long grass. There had been some shooting in 
the country about as we walked to the fields. 
This had now ceased. It was probably done by 
residents who looked for known coveys to supply 
the family dinner pot. As the dew left the grass, 
however, they seemed to hasten to the hay fields 
and leave their shooting until another time. 
Someone had flushed the covey we saw alight 
to the south, and pure luck had shunted them 
within our sight. All were anxious to start for 
them. 
As we drew up to the spot where they 
should be, Jack suggested that he would not 
shoot, but would handle the dogs. John would 
not flush the birds, though he did chase when 
they got up. He was a year old pup with a 
great nose and a woeful absence of yard break¬ 
ing. He would not drop to shot or wing. Jack 
declared the pointer broken, but was afraid of 
giving the dog free rein after he had disobeyed 
so untowardly. Into the stubble adjoining the 
grass we went. The birds were holding well. 
John stiffened to point and the pointer backed 
him. Away ahead rose into the air an old wary 
cock. He was not to be caught napping. An 
automatic’s first pair of shots dropped him, how¬ 
ever. And then the balance of the covey rose 
stragglingly. Brock, on the left, fired on, shot 
at a nicely distanced bird, and stood looking at 
it until the birds had all flown off. He was that 
surprised at having missed it. 
Between the other two of 11s who were 
shooting, the covey paid four birds. Beyond 
the corn they dropped in an unknown and posted 
territory. Then came the working of the dogs 
on the dead birds and teaching them to hold 
their points. This gave Jack courage, for his 
pointer worked nicely and had dropped as we 
began shooting. The choke collar he had applied 
expeditiously on John as that worthy setter 
started to chase the rising birds, much to the 
dog’s surprise and his eventual subjugation. On 
the way back for dinner we sprang a single that 
either dog should have found and stood. So 
ended the shooting of the first morning of the 
season. 
Sunday, the second day, was hot and windy. 
The dogs could not have located an abattoir, to 
say nothing of chickens, and outside of an exer¬ 
cising run morning and night, they were kept up. 
Monday was a day to give credit to both 
dogs and men. They located every bird we had 
a chance at, never flushed, never ran in to break 
shot or wing, and the morning totaled twelve 
birds, which we called satisfactory shooting. 
This would be rotten compared with the slaugh¬ 
ter practiced years ago by the market hunters 
who depleted the prairies. We found birds that 
day where they were least expected. For one 
I had thought that birds fed in the morning as 
much or more than they did at nightfall, but 
that morning’s shoot gave the lie to the idea. 
We found birds, scattering pairs and trios and 
singles, in the corn’s edge, in the flax, in the 
grasses of the roadside, by the creek and else¬ 
where. Brock declared they had been driven 
into these places and been separated from their 
coveys because of the many hunters of Sunday 
and the heat of that day driving them to water 
and shade. For myself I refused to formulate 
any theories, as all mine had been explored in 
the past. 
Almost invariably, however, every bird rush¬ 
ed into the corn if he got away. In the chicken 
country of to-day it is their haven of refuge, 
and they seem to know it. Some got up be¬ 
fore the dogs had a chance of making a point 
and scuttled for the corn. Beneath its heavy 
cover they can bask and sport without fear. 
When you try to get them out of it they run 
like Chinese or ring-neck pheasants of the Pacific 
coast and hide in the grass that grows after the 
last plowing of the fields. 
With such a winter as blizzed through this 
country, 1911-12, it is a wonder that there was 
a single prairie chicken left. There is an abund¬ 
ance of food in the small grain fields until they 
are plowed. Some are not plowed until spring. 
The birds feed in them until the snow is so deep 
they cannot dig through it. The corn is largely 
shucked in the fields, and the nubbins never 
being taken in along with the ears missed, leaves 
plenty of corn to carry the birds along. This 
spring was a fairly favorable nesting season. 
There was no great abundance of rain after pair¬ 
ing time, and chicks were not drowned or eggs 
washed away. 
Our best evening’s shooting occurred on the 
last day of our stay. The morning had been 
hot, so hot that we turned for camp at 9 o’clock. 
We had just a half dozen birds and those killed 
the day before could not stay sweet even in the 
cool cellar, so we decided. I drove eight miles 
for ice, and when the birds were packed on it, 
we felt better. The afternoon cooled off as the 
sky clouded, and the bit of a shower fell. At 
four we went toward the little white church, one 
of the boys bringing up the rear in a buggy as 
he was off food temporarily. The excellent stub¬ 
bles near the church on the hill had not given 
us a bird and we were going to try for them 
there for the last time. 
Working down wind through the field, keep¬ 
ing the dogs well in, we had given the birds up 
when three old birds shot into the air straight 
for us and swung as usual for the corn. One 
paid toll and two winged away, the shot rattling 
