Jan. 6, 1912.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
9 
A Day With Tennessee Quail 
By LEWIS HOPKINS 
“n|^HE weather is too uncertain. Too much 
exposure, and really, there are too few 
birds left to make it worth while” I was 
saying to my wife, who had remarked on the 
fact that I had not been out yet when the tele¬ 
phone rang. 
“You talk like you had been wearing slippers, 
smoking too many black cigars and sitting by the 
fire too much; me, too. Get your togs together 
and let’s go after the birds to-morrow. I’ve got 
everything arranged; all you have to do is to 
come along.” 
‘‘Um! Why, I’m busy, and I did not expect 
to—” 
“Yes, I know all that. Consider it said and 
save time. Six o’clock train in the morning. 
Bring what shells you 
have on hand. I have 
the lunch put up.” 
“But, Charlie, my dog 
is not here.” 
“That’s all right. Man 
across the street from 
me has a dog. Fine old 
pointer, too fat, and he 
wants me to hunt him. 
I’ll bring the dog. You 
will go?” 
“Well, yes — I’ll be 
there.” 
Oh—e, e, e ! That cold 
tub was snappy at 5 
A. M. next morning, but 
when corduroys were 
donned, and a bit of 
rosy dawn began to show 
through the east window, 
that happy glow of an¬ 
ticipated sport set the 
blood to tingling from 
tip to toe. 
Charlie was waiting at 
the train. He had the, 
dog, and it was no slan¬ 
der to call him fat. He 
looked like a big brown 
dirigible. 
“He weigh much as a keg of spikes,” said a 
darkey who lifted the dog into the baggage car. 
It was too early for birds to be stirring when 
we reached our destination, so we concluded to 
follow a stream on the southern boundary of our 
hunting grounds in hopes of finding a duck or 
belated jacksnipe. 
I took one bank, leaving Charlie and the brown 
dog on the other. It was no trouble to make 
the dog heel, where he ambled along apparently 
half asleep. He impressed me, even this early 
in our acquaintance, as being a dog possessing 
great repose of manner. 
Only a single jacksnipe rewarded our quest. 
We both warmed up our guns on it, but failed 
to score. 
“I hate to miss the first flush,” cal’ed my com¬ 
panion, as the jack flitted away untouched, “but 
if it is a ‘scape’ I generally do.” 
A little further along I recrossed the stream 
and we started the real hunt. It was a perfect 
day. Clear, cold and still. There was a sheen 
on the frost-covered stubble that looked like rays 
scintillating from countless gems. The air was 
pure ozone, and I wondered why I had been so 
foolish as to miss the many such days I had let 
pass. 
A sharp whistle turned my attention to the 
business in hand, and I saw the dog on a beau¬ 
tiful point near my friend. Hurrying down, we 
took position, side by side, and moved up. 
“Nice work,” said Charlie, nodding to the dog. 
“Must be covey on roost, not moved yet.” 
Slowly we closed in, one on each side of the 
dog, all three tense as bow strings. Inch by 
inch we moved forward, expecting a covey of 
birds to flush any moment, passed beyond the 
AFTER SOUTHERN QUAIL. 
Photograph by L. R. Foster. 
dog, ranged back and forth and found nothing. 
Returning to the dog we followed the line of 
his point and found it focused on a mouse hole, 
“Get along, there,” said my indignant companion, 
and quietly the dog relaxed and ambled ofi, while 
I returned to my former position. 
We had gone but a short distance when the 
dog pointed again near me. Hope springs eterna', 
as the poet says, and forgetting our disappoint¬ 
ment and doubts we hurried to position again. 
It was another mouse hole. 
The “Get along, there” this time was rein¬ 
forced by the rather vigorous application of a 
well-shod foot. 
“More mice,” said Charlie, a moment later, as 
the fat dog steadied down. We approached with 
our guns on shoulder, and hands in pockets 
Charlie strode on by the dog and right into a 
fine covey of birds that hurtled out, scattering 
in every direction. In frantic haste we unlim¬ 
bered, shooting wildly and without effect, ex¬ 
cept with the last barrel of my companion’s gun, 
which stopped one bird out of bounds. I fired 
wildly at a pair that flew right in my face, but 
do not think they ever knew I was shooting at 
them. 
“Now what do you think of that,” said my 
disgusted friend as the smoke cleared away. “I 
wouldn’t have been more surprised if a flock of 
mouse holes had flown up. I r,m glad to see he 
knows we are hunting birds, too. I had about 
concluded he was only a ratter.” 
The covey had scattered in every direction, but 
the birds marked down went into a bit of woods 
on a steep hillside, and these we followed. It 
was a stiff climb, but we persevered. Getting 
about half way up, we stopped to regain breath 
and found the dog missing. We finally dis¬ 
covered him, sitting quietly at the foot of the 
hill, and no amount of persuasion or command¬ 
ing would cause him to attempt the steep ascent. 
“Shall I shoot him?” said my friend, when we 
had worn ourselves out commanding and en¬ 
treating in vain. 
“Not my dog, nor my 
friend’s dog. You prob¬ 
ably know the conse¬ 
quences better than I,” I 
replied, but hoped he 
would. Fina'ly Charlie 
concluded to spare him 
and as we started down 
a bird flushed at my 
feet, which I dropped 
under the dog’s nose. 
He never moved. 
Half way down my 
companion slipped, grab¬ 
bed at a bush, missed, 
lost his gun and made 
the remainder of the de¬ 
scent—about fifty feet— 
flat . on his back and 
,fairly flying in a cloud 
of leaves, brush and de¬ 
bris. 
“My hair wh'te?” he 
inquired, snatching off 
his cap as soon as I 
reached his side. “Never 
did believe that fool 
theory of sudden fright 
turning hair white, and 
if mine is not like snow. 
I've exploded it right now. See that old gun 
of mine? Came every foot of the way three 
feet in the lead, safety off, both barrels loaded 
and pointing right straight at me. Struck rocks, 
tangled up in brush and had forty good chances 
to go off, and why it did not I can’t see. Be¬ 
lieve I would have enjoyed the tr'p if if had been 
pointing at the dog,” said he with a black look 
at that patient animal sitting calmly at his side. 
Another beautiful point on a mouse hole caus¬ 
ing Charlie to run half across the field and mut¬ 
ter dire threats against our patient best friend. 
Nothing further happened unti' we reached th; 
next field, then after a little careful work the 
dog pointed again. I felt confident it was game. 
“Another mouse, or is he asleep?’' sa'cl Charlie 
as he came striding up. “Mouse I guess'; I don’t 
hear him snore.” 
I was righ*-. It was a covey of birds, and we 
got into them in good shape. Charlie got the 
two first birds up crossin.g, and one with his 
