138 
Feb. 3, 1912 
and Church followed sa3'ing, “Nothing doing.” 
We spread out going through Powell’s, Church 
taking the thick cover with Count, Thompson the 
hillside on his right, and I the edge on his left. 
Thompson was the first one to shoot, once, twice, 
and then called, “D-n it! Had a fine shot 
at two partridges, but missed them. They've 
gone on up the hill. Are you going to chase 
them up?” 
"We certainly are,” cried I and joined Church 
and the dog in circling over toward Thompson 
and up the hillside. After a short hunt we 
flushed one of the birds and Thompson missed 
another shot. The partridge flew back again into 
the run we had quitted and we kept after it. 
When Thompson missed a third chance, I tried 
a barrel at the bird as it rose over the treetops 
and headed for the swamp hole where Church 
had drawn a blank. I could not seem to do any 
better than Thompson, as the old cock kept 
straight on and Church called out, “I think it’s 
my turn.” He went back with Count into the 
thickest of the cover and we soon heard a shot. 
“Did you get him?” I cried. 
“Darn it, no,” said he; “I had a good sight 
on him, but put the charge into that old black 
maple. He’s gone back into Powell’s.” 
Again we followed up that long suffer'ng par¬ 
tridge, and at the edge of a clearing Count froze 
to a point near a tuft of grass. We all stood 
ready for a fine shot and Church walked in to 
pick up the bird which was lying stone dead 
right under the dog’s nose. Some of the charge 
had got by that black maple. 
On our left lay a long stretch of alders, once 
a famous woodcock ground, and nowadays often 
a resting place for a few of the longbills. After 
a conscientious search, however. Count emerged 
from the lower end of the cover without dis¬ 
covering a bird. We continued on our way 
through Powell’s, skirting the edge of a thick 
growth of birch, maple, oak and chestnut tim¬ 
ber. Church, strolling ahead of me, was spin¬ 
ning yarns about his hunting experiences with 
General Ely, a famous old Norwich sportsman, 
who used to spend much of the open season with 
William. 
“Yes, old Grouse, the general’s dog, had the 
finest nose I ever saw. I’ve never seen such a 
partridge dog before or since. He always seemed 
to get a point without flushing, but then there 
were birds those days, and you could get some¬ 
where near them. Grouse started in mighty 
wild. I remember one time the dog was with 
me for a couple of weeks. I was shooting for 
the market then pretty regular and gave o'd 
Grouse a few lessons in steadiness that he 
needed. When the general went out with him 
again, he did not say much, but I noticed he 
kept a careful eye on the dog, A few days 
afterward he sent me a check for --.” 
“Brrrr; brrrr!” two partridges flushed at the 
edge of the birches in front of Church and 
started for cover. The old repeater came up 
like a flash and at its sharp crack a cloud of 
feathers and /a thud in the dry leaves marked 
the end of the first bird, a straightaway. Hardly 
had number one struck the ground when “crack” 
went the gun again, and this time partridge num¬ 
ber two, a left quarterer, was literally bowled 
over, the light gray of its breast showing as it 
dropped. 
“I’m awfully sorry I took your shot” cried 
Church. “I cou’d just as well have slipped out 
FOREST AND STREAM 
of your way. I forgot myself, to tell the truth.” 
I was standing close to Wi liam, who really 
seemed, quite conscience-stricken, that he had 
not given me the shot, and taking a step to¬ 
ward him I gave him a resounding'slap on the 
back. “Don’t bother about that,” said I, “you 
got them both, which is more than I could have 
done. It was worth the hunt to see you do it.” 
We now headed for the Packer place where 
we had located a flock of about fifteen partridges 
in one of our former hunts, but the birds did 
not seem to be in the treetops and brush heaps 
where we had found them before, and we turned 
our steps toward the clumps of birches in the 
next lot. Count scrambled over the wall, began 
nosing around, and soon struck a scent so hot 
that he had to crawl along on his belly to avoid 
overrunning his bird. In a minute he froze to 
a stiff point in some birch sprouts alongside the 
patch. There was no undergrowth and I won¬ 
dered where the bird was, for I could see none. 
Church said he could see him just in front of 
the dog’s nose. I stepped in and a nice fat 
woodcock whistled out in the open and went 
corkscrewing down the path. Both barrels of 
my gun and one of Thompson’s had no effect 
on “Mr. Timberdoodle” further than to increase 
the speed and weird twisting of his flight. We 
marked him down a few hundred yards away 
near a big maple, and followed after. 
As I was scrambling over a dilapidated stone 
wall, trying to keep various portions thereof 
from landing on my toes, the woodcock flushed 
again. It rose straight through the treetops, 
giving Thompson as good a shot as the one I 
had just missed. He failed, however, to take 
advantaee of his ooportunity and we pursued 
the bird another “fly,” This time Church had 
his turn on a wild flush, but the cock still kept 
on, this time into a thick swamp where we were 
unable to find him. 
We turned back to the birches, “Tom Gard¬ 
ner’s woodcock patch,” as Church called it, to 
look for more, and it was not long before we 
had another point. A cock flushed ahead of me 
and headed straight through the myriad birch 
twigs. I sighted the bird carefully and at the 
crack of my first barrel he shut up like a jack¬ 
knife. Count retrieved and we tried out the 
rest of the patch. Suddenly the dog stiffened 
and we walked in ahead of him. “Brrrr, brrrr,” 
and two partridges got up on the further edge 
of the cover and went streaking across the open 
pasture and into the woods beyond. Luckily 
their line of flight led toward'Abell’s and 'unch. 
One we were unable to .find, the other buzzed 
out of a treetop in front of Church, who fired 
and downed it just as I pulled myself. I say 
“downed,” and so I thought, but just before it 
struck the ground, the partridge recovered and 
scaled off into the cedars. Finally, Church, who 
suggested that it might be a little further to the 
left than we had searched, wandered over in 
that direction and .nearly stepped on the bird 
lying dead on its back. When he had tucked it 
away in the baFk pocket of his shooting coat, we 
hurried on to Abell’s and strengthened the inner 
man with a sandwich or two before we started 
on the afternoon’s hunt. 
Our pipes lighted, we started the old machine 
up the cross-road that ran near Ford’s swamp 
and hopped out at the bars leading into Ford’s 
seven-acre lot. There were no signs of game 
in the alder run, however, and we kept on up 
a path over the hillside beyond. As we dipped 
down over the ridge. Count pointed in the maples 
at the pathside. The dog’s nose was held high 
as if he scented a partridge in a clump of cedars 
beyond, so when a woodcock fluttered up in 
front of me, the minute I stepped into the cover 
I promptly missed with both barrels. The old 
setter made another nice point on the woodcock 
after his first “fly” and again I tried my luck. 
I thought I would be more careful this time and 
when the bird flushed, waited until I got h'm 
over the end of the gun. Just as I pressed the- 
trigger, however, the cock changed his straight¬ 
away course and swooped to the left. Needless 
to say, my charge of No. 8 came nowhere near 
him. We marked him down by a fence near 
the brook. 
On our way Count had another point and it 
was Church’s chance this time. William walked 
over to and by the dog. when suddenly the 
woodcock twittered up behind him Church 
swung around like lightning, but the bird drop¬ 
ped down in a birch thicket before he could hold 
on him. We went back over the ridge, and at 
the dog’s point I called to Church; “Now, you 
get him. I can’t Iv’t a thing.” Church flushed 
the bird, but did not fire and the lon.gbill gave 
me a beautiful straightaway shot as it twisted 
up over the treetops. We turned back after 
woodcock No. i. “How about this last one?” 
you ask. “Did you get him?” I did not think 
it necessary to say anything more about that 
bird. I certainly did—not, and he kept on out 
of sight. 
As we trudged down the hillside toward the 
fence I told Wifliam that he would have to 
kill the bird, as it was beyond me. The sound 
of my voice flushed the woodcock—a flight bird 
which my shooting had made rather wild—and 
he got up over forty yards'away. Church’s old 
gun, however, was good for the distance and the 
cock dropped. 
We crossed the little brook and up over the 
hill beyond, then swung back toward the machine. 
A partridge rose out of a clump of long grass 
at the edge of the cover and I snapped at it in¬ 
effectively as it went sailing down toward the 
brook. Church marked the bird down in a fallen 
chestnut tree. ]\Iy resolves were most deadly 
as we approached the treetop, and when the o’d 
hen started to make for the top of the other 
hill, I took plenty of time and missed her with 
the first barrel. By this time I thought her out 
of range, and fired the second barrel in her 
general direction just for luck. The bird was 
topping a big oak, but at the crack of this last 
luck shot she came bumping down through the 
dead leaves as dead as a herring. 
We had one more point as we walked down 
the brook to the road, but the partridge flushed 
way ahead of us. When we got to the machine, 
Thompson told us that the bird had just sailed 
over the road into the next lot. That field was 
posted. However, we thought we had had our 
share and called it a day at that. 
Hunting Hardships. 
“Serve the champagne in tin cups, James,” 
directed the owner of the hunting lodge. 
“Very good, sir.” 
These hunting parties always like to rough 
it a trifle.—Louisville Courier-Journal. ' 
