FOREST AND STREAM 
757 
down hard, at the same time grappling at the 
foot of one of the mammoth boots. 
Then he got up! 
A big, opulent, man's-sized squash pie had 
been left there to cool. 
Yawcob runs Freetz a close race avoirdu- 
poise, and the way that squash fountained up, 
and distributed itself over the reverse English 
of his anatomy was something to see and not 
forget. Also remember the- pie had been put 
there to COOL! 
Oh, for a camera in “them happy days.” 
Mrs. John loaned the Teuton a pink mother- 
hubbard; one of the girls furnished a blue 
“cover-all” apron, and the hired man anted up 
a pair of carpet slippers big enough to rent 
out for bill-board purposes. 
Believe me, the pie annihilator was some sub¬ 
ject for an artist’s brush as he sat down to 
dinner! 
Charlie and I left the pair playing cards. No 
more hunting for them! 
Then the sun came out. 
Everything changed. The keen edge of the 
wind was dulled as if the breeze had scraped 
its sharp side on a giant stone. The air cleared 
as if by magic; juncos appeared from nowhere 
and began to feed. The clouds disappeared from 
the sky, and from an old fence row came the 
“ki-loi-kee” rally-call of a quail. 
Life seemed worth living. It was to be “part 
of a day” after all! 
“Sa-a-ay youse city dudes! Jest tie those snipe 
nosed, wicket legged bird pup’o your’n to one 
’or yer legs, while I shows yer a sure enough 
field tri-aller!” 
We turned, for there he was. 
A farmer with hair red enough to light a 
pipe. Also he had a crop of whiskers of a lesser 
luridness that would have hidden a jackrabbit. 
The breeze was playing a sad dirge through 
that hirsute appendage, but we gathered that 
the son of the soil wanted Bess eliminated from 
the firing line; and then we would see some¬ 
thing. 
I called the good old girl to heel, and she 
came in, though it was apparent she was not 
stuck on the to-heel stunt. 
The farmer had with him the prettiest red 
Irish setter I ever laid eyes on! 
Hither and yon sped the red dog, quartering 
the field as if it was a mammoth checker-board. 
Never had we seen better ranging; and sud¬ 
denly the dog slid into a “set” stiff as a ramrod. 
“Steady! steady!” roared the farmer, though 
goodness knows the setter was like marble. 
Whirred up the covey; cracked the sixteen, 
on the last bird. I was too busy watching that 
“set” to pull at more than one. 
Down came the quail. 
“Now I’ll show youse fellers what rc^-treever 
is. I’m a dog-breaker myself, and don’t take 
no back seat fur any of ’em.” 
“Dead bird you red devil you! Sick ’em dead! 
Dead bird you—Oh if I had you dost —■ 
As these few remarks were cast upon the 
breeze, the farmer’s eyes sought his dog. In the 
meantime, a big buck cotton-tail, scared nearly to 
fan-tods by the hullabaloo, had quit his form 
and was making a streak across the intervening 
landscape, that resembled the track of a white 
wash brush over the weather-stained boards of 
a back fence. 
The last time we looked, the race stood—Rab¬ 
bit, first; Red Irish, second, at the quarter and 
going good; Whiskers third and whipping hard! 
And—the language that floated back from this 
conglomeration of speed, was something to shock 
even the ears of Captain Kidd—-if he had ears. 
I looked for Charlie. There he was, prone, 
wet but hilarious, his legs feebly waving in the 
air and just able to chuckle “Did you, DID you, 
see that field tn'-aller”? 
Then he would roll some more. 
I got him up, and after a time he spluttered: 
“You take that snipe nosed, wicket legged pup 
of yours and get some quail! I’m going over in 
the next state, and see the finish of that race. 
Also I will kill a few rabbits. They ought to be 
on the feed after all this storm.” 
And then I had my afternoon. 
From the thickets ever and anon came the 
boom of the big ten. 
All this time Old Bess had calmly stood “to 
heel.” 
Her eyes sparkled as she looked at me, and 
she seemed to say “Is it our turn now?” 
Bless her old heart, she had been doing what 
none of us had thought of doing. 
SHE El AD WATCHED THE FLUSHED 
BIRDS! 
“Hi on, girl-” 
Away, straight as a dart, goes the lemon and 
white worker. At a little patch of grass in a 
sandy hollow, she comes to a point, and—lies 
calmly down until I come up! No hurry, this is 
an all afternoon job! 
Whir-r-r! Crack! the first bird is down! 
So it was the rest of the afternoon. The 
weather had turned ideal; there were birds 
enough to pick and choose from; we were alone 
and calm, Bess and I. What better could a man 
ask? 
At dusk I met Charlie. He was- hung full 
of rabbits until he looked like one side of a cold- 
storage room. 
“That race must have ended in Tuscaloosa, 
Alabama,” he said: “I never saw whiskers or 
his dog after they topped that first hill.” 
In the pockets of my stained old coat, among 
the tobacco scraps and dog hair, were an even 
dozen birds. Each had been fondled, stroked 
and gloated over as it slid into the dark recesses. 
I was cold but happy; Charlie was cold and 
happy; Bess was chilly, but she trotted along 
with head erect. “Shame on you Bessie, you’re 
no’ field tri-aller,” said Charlie as he started to 
have his afternoon’s laugh all over again. 
John met us. 
“Say,” he remarked “those two Dutchmen took 
the rig you fellows came in and went to town 
two hours ago.” 
“Yes, and our overcoats and the robes were 
all in that rig,” wailed my companion! 
So we hiked back to the other farm house 
(after untieing Towser and giving him a “start” 
toward home) and hitching up the single, blanket¬ 
less rig, put Old Bess between us and headed 
north. 
The wind rose; the sleet fell; so did we— 
asleep, in spite of the cold. 
Then we (literally) ran into a toll gate. The 
keeper had half dropped the pole and had gone 
to bed thinking that no blank fool would ven¬ 
ture out in that kind of a night! 
We were awakened to activity by the rip of 
- y ryp 
Bess Had Honest Eyes. 
leatherette and the smash of hickory bows. 
Though we left half the top as a souvenir to the 
keeper, didn’t the rig belong to those two “horse 
thieves” Yawcob und Freetz? Hadn’t they 
played us a low down trick? We should worry!' 
The rest of the drive home is simply a dream 
of a crevice in an iceberg, and a play on our 
systems of a fountain filled with ammonia cool¬ 
ing solution. 
We drove up to the store. Yawcob und 
Freetz, reclothed and fed, were waiting for us. 
“Here dey vas!” yelled Freetz. 
“Bettcher dinner mit four, you get noddings?” 
This from Yawcob. 
Chorus from both “Dunderwetter, vas ist ?” 
pointing to the wreck of the buggy top. 
“Towser ate the top” said Charlie, “and so we 
stood him against a blank wall at sunrise and 
shot him full o’ Mother’s oats.” 
"Sa-a-y” whispered Yawcob to me, “Did ye, 
did you, leave somethings in de puggy?” 
“Not your air-ship, field glasses” was the re¬ 
ply. 
So the supper was on the Teutons, but Charlie 
and I saw to it that some of the quail and rab¬ 
bits went into cold storage, and Christmas night 
covers were laid for four—and then some. 
Old Bess was there by special invitation, and 
you may be sure that she had aplenty of the good 
things to eat. 
Yawcob und Freetz furnished the trimmings 
and the et ceteras, so you know there was 
enough. 
If you want to give Charlie (he’s fat now) 
the heart disease, just ask him about the “field 
tn’-aller.” 
36 Lincoln St- Boston, Nov. 20, 1914. 
OLD FILES. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
I note with interest your remarks in regard to 
owners of back files of Forest and Stream. 
I have the old American Sportsman (5 
volumes) complete, also the American Sports¬ 
man, Volume 6, and file of Forest and Stream 
from its start to date, with only 2 volumes (7 
and 8) missing, and here and ihere an odd 
number, but not many. I have started in read¬ 
ing at odd times the back numbers a’ d am now 
up to 1886 only, but I assure you t’s a treat to 
read some of the writings of the old writers 
now passed away. 
C. W. CHAMBERLAIN. 
