FOREST AND STREAM 
1191 
its last struggle. One pup seeing it, swam half 
way, then lost courage and returned to shore. 
Duke was watching the play dreamily until the 
last attempt of the young dog. He got up, shook 
himself, took to the water, and swimming out 
to the bird carried it to the feet of the biggest 
pup. He realized instantly that he had per¬ 
formed contrary to custom. He turned from us 
and bolted toward the house. An hour later he 
was discovered in a new straw stack, still wet 
and trembling from the exposure. 
Duke’s days were becoming limited. He was 
lively as could be expected to his last day. If 
anything I thought his speed had increased some, 
but he could not find birds. He had absolutely 
no nose. And when he approached me, he would 
have said, if he had the gift of speech: “No use 
partner, I have lost everything, I just can’t smell.” 
The pup with us found everything, and when 
Duke came up to back, it was a mechanical act. 
He did it in a dazed way, seemingly not cogniz¬ 
ant of what he was doing. He retrieved one 
dead quail, but refused on the next one. Just 
the way it was happening it made me desist from 
so much as a harsh word. He tried his best. 
The vigor of the game, nose, scent, stamina and 
intelligence were waning. Twice he walked 
through coveys of quails, flushing them, though 
unaware of their presence. Only field actions 
told me he was not right. He galloped home in 
a wabbly way, without the incentive of hunting, 
and more like a piece of machinery lacking 
proper adjustment. 
Just before supper, as I was lounging on a 
hickory settee, he invaded the sitting room. He 
showed by his tail action that he was a little 
embarrassed at his entrance. This was beyond 
his line of permit, the dining room doorway, but 
he came on direct to me. 
There was pleading in his eyes and a pathetic 
cast to his noble countenance. He dropped on 
his hindquarters, burying his head between my 
knees. The sun was setting, and the big red barn 
took on a lavish tint of red. From the fringe 
of hardwood skirting the farm I heard the gath¬ 
ering call of the scattered quails. . Quoi Hee! 
Quoi Hee! It never before sounded so plain- 
B Y all means let him have a day, and let him 
understand that it is his day. No need to 
proclaim it from the housetop, but talk it 
over with him beforehand and let him plan and 
perform his various duties to secure the day 
free and then he will feel that he has helped to 
earn it and will the better appreciate it. 
Don’t start him off with elaborate suit and 
high-priced automatic and an attendant. The boy 
who starts that way will never know the basic 
enjoyment of nature, nor get the most out of 
his future hunting. 
No matter if he is to be heir to unthinkable 
piles of the yellow '“root of all evil,” let him take 
a few bumps at the outset. I’ll venture his 
money-making grandsire carried a ramrod under 
his gun barrel when he shot his first squirrel and 
used tow or old newspaper or hornet’s nest for 
wadding and knew how to make the ramrod 
bounce off the powder clear out of the gun, and 
tapped the shot wad just enough so that it 
wouldn’t shake out when he jumped down off 
the fence. Many’s the time I have gone into the 
middle of a bare pasture field and shot out my 
This Happy Little Codger Seems to Have 
Several Good “Days” Rolled Into One. 
tively. I placed my hands as usual with a com¬ 
forting caress on his head. Heavens! His 
tongue was hanging limply from the side of his 
mouth. 
“Duke! Duke! Duke !” I shouted. 
The dog’s spirit had flown beyond the call of 
man. Duke was dead! I let him gently to the 
floor, and laid my head on his warm body. Then 
I sobbed. 
ramrod because it was a trifle too short and the 
paper caught over the curl and I couldn’t pull 
it out. Up she would go until almost out of 
sight, and slowly swinging over come down faster 
and faster to sink deep in the soft earth or split 
off a piece if a stone intervened. It takes an 
old fellow who started on ramrod hunting to ap¬ 
preciate the wonderful changes that have come 
to the hunters of to-day. 
Well, if the boy’s “Daddy” will take a day off, 
now that the boy has grown big enough to shoul¬ 
der a gun, all the better for the boy and the man. 
The boy I am having in mind is not my own, but 
I have been out two or three times with him 
and his father, who takes a wholesome interest 
in leaving him go, and gives him a few plain, 
explicit and emphatic rules to govern his actions 
afield. Being a boy he has to be watched rather 
closely as to where his gun is pointed, but he is 
improving. 
Until this year his biggest game brought to bag 
was squirrels and one raccoon. 
On New Year’s Day as he and his father were 
sitting on a log listening for a squirrel he sud¬ 
denly called out “There’s a turkey,” quite for¬ 
getting that he held a gun and as the bird made 
off almost directly behind his father it was well 
out of range before a charge of 4s went after 
it To be sure I was about a quarter of a mile 
up the branch and at the report I waited and a 
fine old gobbler came into the top of a mammoth 
pine, and we all had roast turkey for dinner the 
next day. The boy was a good deal “heckled” 
over this break and a little wholesome teasing 
we thought would put him on his guard for an¬ 
other trial. 
The boy with his father and I were out again 
from 2 P. M. until sunset, trying for turkeys. 
We knew the range of a certain small bunch and 
scoured that river swamp quite thoroughly until a 
half-hour by sun, and saw only a few old signs. 
Then Fanny commenced trailing and we found 
signs aplenty—scratchings under oak and bay 
trees and where three or four had crossed a 
muddy branch, now without water. 
One track was very fresh and Fanny went 
frantic for a few seconds but all at once she 
commenced circling and didn’t find the trail 
again. We learned later that a neighbor had 
shot one of three close by this place an hour be¬ 
fore we left home; that one had crossed the 
river and the third he heard but did not see. 
Poor Fanny did not know what to make of the 
case and circled far and wide without avail. We 
finally decided they had been alarmed and had 
flown off, and took up our line of march for 
the horses at the edge of big timber. 
I was following Frank and the boy brought up 
the rear. It was some little time after sunset 
and we were hurrying to get through the low 
swamp while it was yet light enough to pick 
our way. An old swamp owl hacLcalled two or 
three times “Whoo-oo-oo-ah-h-h-Ii” on ahead of 
us; a Florida cardinal chipped sharp and clear 
over in a thick clump of briars and we heard a 
squirrel fussing at us from somewhere off among 
a bunch of palmettos, but it was too dark now 
to find him and we hastened along. Fanny had 
decided to stop hunting and was on the lead. 
Once or twice I glanced back and found the 
boy was close up behind with gun over shoulder 
and pointed well up and I felt safe. 
Several times during the evening we had been 
compelled to urge him to a quicker gait as he 
was inclined to lag and a river swamp is not a 
desirable place for a night’s outing in February 
when we had been having frosty mornings for 
nearly a week. 
I had been keeping a weather eye on most of 
the big pines, but now the light was so dull I 
had almost ceased my looking, when just off the 
trail, out towards the westward and what re¬ 
maining glow was in the sky, I saw a bunch 
well up in the top of a mighty pine and out on 
a branch close to a “swaying” clump of gray moss. 
It surely looked like turkey! It was too dark 
to risk a lengthy investigation. I checked the 
boy silently and pointed. It took him a few sec¬ 
onds to see and realize just what was happening 
and then the manly little fellow shook his head 
. and touched my gun and pointed to the bird. 
I made him a most emphatic gesture and turned 
to leave but not so quickly but I saw him bring¬ 
ing up his gun and then watching, I noted de¬ 
liberate aim and felt sure he was recalling our 
most careful instruction to shoot at the neck. 
At the crack of the gun Frank and Fanny were 
back with us instanter and Fanny had the bird 
by the wing before we reached it—a fine gobbler 
of the year, weighing 10% pounds when we 
reached home—and the happy boy grinned his 
appreciation to me as he munched hot biscuit and 
syrup at the supper table. 
GIVE THE BOY HIS DAY 
TEACH HIM SOMETHING OF THE OUT¬ 
DOORS AND HIS LIFE WILL BE BRIGHTER 
By Osceola. 
