1138 
FOREST AND STREAM 
The Greatest American Bird—After the Bird of 
Freedom—Bob White. 
From a drawing by L. A. Fuertes, 
drew me aside and told me to look for an ex¬ 
press package from him in the near future. Then 
they all gathered their belongings, gave Kate a 
substantial present, which gave them a sudden 
uplift in her affections, and taking their birds 
they jumped in the buckboard and father drove 
them to the station. Before they passed the outer 
gate of the farm they waved back, and I saw 
that it was for neither mother nor me, but for 
Duke and May, who were tugging with all their 
might to break their chains, with hope of another 
day afield in their company. 
Only a week went by when the express pack¬ 
age was brought home by father. It contained 
a sixteen-gauge gun, and in another compartment, 
mind you, were loading tools and a thousand 
empty shells. What more could a boy ask for? 
Pardon the exclamations of a boy. My happi¬ 
ness was complete! 
I wanted to go hunting right off the reel, but, 
of course, mother interposed, and I thought it 
presaged a stormy argument between her and 
father. For the moment, however, I was content 
to look at my gun. Father came out of the room 
and spoke to me. He and mother were smiling. 
I dared not ask the reason. He took the gun, 
admired it, and quietly instructed me about the 
action and the handling of it. 
But he could have spared himself of all this, 
for, as true as I am writing these lines, the 
handling of that gun was born in me. I did 
not listen! I knew it all ahead. For was I not 
blood of his blood, and welling over with con¬ 
geries of emotions which were driving me to 
the game? 
11 . 
The First Bird. 
Since the presentation of the gun a year had 
gone by. I had been drilled and drilled in the 
rudiments of firearms, allowed frequent shots 
at crows, but during the dove season, when 1 
could have gained some experience in wing shoot¬ 
ing, I spent with a relative in the city. All the 
time I longed to use the gun with our old pointer 
Duke. The dog had lost some of his snap, and 
was yielding precedence to some of the younger 
and faster dogs. All along father had intended him 
for me, for I heard him speak as though it would 
be impossible for me to spoil him. And, now, 
a longing as great as that for dog and gun over¬ 
whelmed me; it was for the opening of the quail 
season. 
Father’s absence the opening day might cause 
the postponement of my first venture afield. 
Were it to occur what a disappointment it 
would be! 
I learned from my mother that my father 
would not return in time for the first day, and 
that they had arrived at the conclusion that I 
was to be allowed to hunt all day whenever there 
was a holiday, or afternoon, provisional on my 
being without a companion. They feared no 
danger for me were I to hunt alone. For a 
while I was not even to tell a neighbor’s boy or 
anyone else, lest they might force their company 
on me in the field. 
The burden on my mind was small in com¬ 
parison to that of my shell pockets, which yawed 
to the limit of their capacity with their stupendous 
burden of ammunition. I was sure not to be 
caught in the field without enough shells, but in 
a few hours I regretted the tax it placed on 
my movements. I would not, however, have given 
up carrying that immense supply for anything. 
From tales around the fireplace and from ob¬ 
servation I knew something of a dog’s require¬ 
ments. The matter of intelligence, too, had a 
place in my sentiency. Moreover, I do not recall 
this as much as the thrill seizing me on my route 
to the hunting areas. No morning was ever so 
beautiful. It painted the homely sedge a golden 
yellow, and robbed the ragweed tops of their 
swart ugliness. There was a bit of frost on the 
ground, and the hardwoods also shone the touch 
of the fall pigments. 
The old dog inspired in me a bond of sympathy 
with him, and I wished to help him all the ways 
possible. Duke was my kind of dog then, and 
I am still loyal to his memory, for he is my kind 
of a dog now. With bold dash and wide range 
in the open he rushed out and the heavy cover 
he worked closely. Whatever arguments may 
be offered in favor of different methods of work 
my ideal will always be this. I am aware of 
the difficulty encountered in obtaining the com¬ 
bination. We hear of them in books and noisy 
argument around the stove at the hunting camp, 
but one of the rarest things to be had is a real 
combination covey and single bird dog. 
The very beauty of Duke’s cast from the start 
was compelling. He went straight over barren 
grounds without delay and into the heavy seed¬ 
bearing ragweed cover, active as he could be. With 
his noble head high against the wind and black 
nostrils quivering for contact with the scent he 
loved so dearly, he raced over the wide areas 
down to the swale of billowing yellow sedge 
just out of my sight over the crest of a small 
rise. 
Peering far ahead I saw him, a distant statue 
awaiting my arrival. Transfixed on the edge of 
the sedge patch stood the old fellow, high-headed 
and positive of a covey find. Every movement 
of the birds was recorded in those big blood 
vessels of the face, and his marvelously beautiful 
brown eyes stared ahead in happy contemplation. 
Duke had them! 
Would I ever get to him in time? He was 
absolutely reliable and had been so for years. 
Yes, the old fellow waited for me. Breathless, 
I came to him. I walked with shaking knees 
ahead of him. 
Whir! Whir! The bursting sounds of mighty 
muffled thunders, and I pulled both triggers. 
There were two separate clicks. I almost went 
into tears. Thank God! nobody had seen me, 
for I had forgotten to load my gun. 
Old Duke stood still for an instant, his great 
brown eyes marking the flight of the birds, until 
they abruptly dropped into a growth of post oak 
and sumac. Out he went again, straight to the 
quarry, then into the thicket out of my sight. 
Loading the gun I followed, and fighting my 
way through the small blackberry vines and 
tangle of sawbriar, I came to the old timer, who 
was half crouching on point. Up went the single 
and I fired. The sole reward for my shot was 
the falling of a few post oak leaves. Eight birds 
met the same salutation, and not one was hit. 
It was not such an easy game after all! I 
had laughed ar times when sportsmen spoke of 
their misses. It was no more a laughing matter. 
Undismayed I determined to try again—try 
again and again as long as my pockets held a 
shell. In the wheat stubble, in the corn, back 
in the ragweed and sedge the old timer performed 
miraculously and presented me with countless 
opportunities. I always failed. 
Later in the day my little legs tired. It was 
no more a question who would tire, Duke or I? 
I sat down and ate lunch, not, however, without 
sharing with Duke. I patted him lovingly and 
out of his eye I caught a wink of encouragement; 
there would be better things in store for me. 
Afternoon opened no more auspiciously than 
during the morning. Every time I thought I 
pulled right on the bird there was a vacancy. 
Once the paper, the outer covering of the wad, 
encouraged me. I thought, perhaps, I had 
brought down a feather and ran to where it fell. 
I searched carefully and discovered the mistake. 
On the route home Duke searched persistently. 
Not far from the house he froze into point, just 
as the sun fell behind the hardwoods and the 
chill of evening came on. I walked slowly to 
him. I would control my nervousness in spite 
of myself. I bit my lip. Gradually I gained the 
dog’s head, and I kicked once into the clump 
of matted foxtail. Up went the birds with their 
thunder resounding. My gun dropped auto¬ 
matically on one, and for an infinite part of a 
second it played on its back. My hand steeled 
my forefinger to the occasion. I pressed the 
trigger. 
Could it be true? Yes, for I beheld the cloud 
Peering Far Ahead 1 Saw Him, a Distant Statue 
Awaiting My Arrival. 
