A Day with the Italian Quail. 
Almost invariably, when the hand of civiliza¬ 
tion stretches out for new land, game recedes 
accordingly, but I found a most interesting ex¬ 
ception to this rule in the mountains of Central 
Italy. 
Among the great engineering feats of recent 
years one that created considerable stir was 'the 
converting of Lake Fucino into an enormous 
farm. Prince Torlonia owned this useless body 
of water, gathered in a sort of great bowl high 
in the Apennines, and 
with his progressive 
ways it was not hard to 
interest him in a project 
to reclaim the sunken 
territory by tunneling 
an outlet through the 
surrounding hills and 
allowing the water to 
flow into the River 
Aniene. The work was 
undertaken and proved 
a complete success; the 
soil produced abundantly 
and soon repaid for the 
capital expended. But 
what Prince Torlonia 
certainly did not expect 
was the gaining of a 
shooting preserve, the 
like of which is found 
nowhere in Italy. Quail 
seemed to find ideal 
breeding grounds among 
the vigorous crops that 
sprang up from this vir¬ 
gin land, and instead of 
hurrying north, as is 
their wont in May and 
June, they paused at this 
new' oasis to build their 
nests. When the season 
opened the place was simply alive with birds, 
and the Prince soon made it into a preserve over 
w'hich he and his friends now enjoy excellent 
sport. 
It was this promised land that I was invited 
to visit not long ago. I had been summering at 
Viareggio, but was called to Rome in late August 
and there met the Chevalier Del Vaso, whose 
prolific pen has done so much to further the in¬ 
terests of Italian sportsmen and wdio is a keen 
and expert devotee of dog and gun. He was 
about to leave for a two days’ shoot on Lake 
Fucino, he told me, and proposed that I accom¬ 
pany him if I wanted a most interesting trip. 
“The drainage scheme is well worth seeing,” 
he said, “and I have permission to shoot the 
Prince’s preserves at will, so you can kill two 
birds with one stone. By making Avezzano our 
headquarters we will be near the grounds, and 
I promise you the bag of your life. Will you 
go ?” 
I was only too anxious to see this wonderful 
spot of which I had heard so much, and I ac¬ 
cepted gladly; then, as we w'ere leaving the 
next morning I had to hustle in search of a dog. 
for my pointer Pit was in no condition to stand 
two days of killing work. I decided to apply 
first to an American sculptor living in the city, 
and it was fortunate I did so. His son had a 
large kennel from which he was attempting to 
develop an ideal dog he had in mind, and I was 
entrusted wdth a rather unpromising specimen, 
half pointer, half bracco, said by the boy to be 
the result of several generations of careful 
breeding and the finest quail dog in Rome. I 
ITALIAN QUAIL. 
took him with misgivings and laughed inwardly 
at the thought of his being classed with good 
hunting dogs at all, but I could not offend my 
friend, so I had to be satisfied. 
The following day I met the Chevalier at the 
station and we bought third class tickets in order 
to be able to take the dogs in the car with us. 
Our compartment was soon full of an ill-smell¬ 
ing and jabbering lot of peasants, and we had a 
most unpleasant trip in spite of the great beauty 
of the country we passed through. After stop¬ 
ping a few minutes beyond the Acque Albume 
to allow us to admire the magnificent cascades 
at Tivoli, the train began to climb the mountain 
and thereafter we advanced at a snail's pace, the 
asthmatic engine puffing wheezingly up the steep 
grades. It took us all of five hours to cover 
seventy miles, the last ten of which were down¬ 
hill. 
Avezzano, where we alighted, is a rapidly 
growing town, its people picturesque and hos¬ 
pitable, the , country beautiful, and the air clear 
and bracing. Our first care was to visit the 
Prince’s agent to tell him of our intended trip. 
Pie was very courteous, placing his own small 
phaeton at our disposal to drive to the grounds 
and informing us where most birds were to be 
found. 
'J'he next morning we started at dawn and I 
had a chance to admire the great work done 
in drying the former lake. From all directions 
huge canals converge like the spokes of a wheel 
toward a central one, elliptical in shape, which 
encircles what was the deepest part of the lake 
and is still called “il bacinetto” (the small basin) 
owing to the waters hav¬ 
ing stayed there longest. 
Deep ditches, covering 
the entire place like a 
network, carry the water 
to these canals, the 
largest of which leads to 
the outlet tunnel and is 
provided with locks by 
which the water can be 
regulated at will, thus 
solving very simply the 
whole irrigation prob¬ 
lem. Great poplar-bor¬ 
dered avenues run from 
every direction to the 
circular canal and small 
bridges serve as viaducts 
into the bacinetto which 
is the Prince’s preserve. 
These bridges being the 
only means of access to 
the forbidden territory 
and each being guarded 
by a keeper whose cot¬ 
tage flanks it, it is im¬ 
possible to enter it with¬ 
out a permit. 
Inside the land is di¬ 
vided into big squares, 
about half a mile each 
way, planted alternately 
with wheat, corn, potatoes and hemp. We had 
been advised to shoot from road 37 (they are 
all numbered in orderly fashion), but we had 
not reached the keeper’s lodge before we heard 
firing. I was for changing direction, but the 
formation of the roads would not allow of it, 
and Del Vaso said there were plenty of quail, 
anyhow. 
The keeper received us ceremoniously and said 
Mr. Ranaldi. the Roman banker, had preceded 
us with a friend, but did not seem to be finding 
much game, although there were many covers 
around them. We followed in their tracks in 
as pretty a piece of stubble as I have ever seen. 
I had taken Fido, my friend’s dog, with me be¬ 
cause of Pit being rather lame, and noticed to 
my surprise that the minute he saw me load my 
gun he became a different dog. He seemed to 
shake off all his laziness and awkwardness and 
I began to wonder how I could have thought 
him ill looking. With head high and tail wag¬ 
ging, he bounced into the dew-covered stubble, 
and then as if by magic he dropped into a classic. 
