204 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Feb. 17, 1912 
The Covey in the Meadow 
By AMOS BURHANS 
T he pup and I dragged ourselves to a shady 
spot under a willow at one side of the 
meadow’s end. It had been a hot morn¬ 
ing in the early fall, and it had been spent look¬ 
ing for the little covey that I had known to in¬ 
habit the locality for the season, and Charlie and 
I had tried to take toll from their midst for 
our steady protection of the summer and previ¬ 
ous spring. But they had eluded us easily, run¬ 
ning at times ahead of his old dog and my 
puppy, refusing to rise, and in every way had 
shown themselves not to be intimidated by the 
dogs or our voices. 
There were at the beginning of the season 
three nesting pairs. The pair that had nested 
in the orchard raised two nice coveys. The 
second pair, that nested in the strawberry patch 
now grown high with weeds and burs from a 
couple of seasons’ wild growth, had reared 
seventeen birds. The third covey down in the 
woodlot, some twenty birds, had blown in from 
across the Mississippi and settled in the edge 
of the woodlot. And all had scuttled out to the 
meadow and the surrounding corn and swale 
grass as the big, juicy bugs of haying time and 
corn cutting season had invited them. True, we 
had seen but little of them during the previous 
two weeks and thought they were to be easily 
found. 
Charlie and I had been scouting for the eager 
small-mouth black bass along the ripraps and 
wing dams and heard the quail calling at night¬ 
fall. We had listened to them during the morn¬ 
ing while we were in our little fishing boats with 
friends, dropping moon-eyed minnows into the 
deeper waters when the flies and surface work 
failed to snare the cautious strikers at the baits. 
One noon as we had flipped the eggs over in 
the skillet—I particularly remember the day be¬ 
cause we did not have enough of those fresh 
country eggs to go around—just across the river 
we heard a lot of quail talk and saw a black cur 
chasing through the pastures, head to the ground 
and probably the cause of the shrill whistling 
of the birds, each trying to find the other again 
after separation. But no matter how thick they 
seemed to have been before, to-day they were 
not to be found. 
Beginning near Pearl Joe’s place we circled 
a little cornfield, drew down on a long fence of 
rails, with its corners full of rubbish, and then 
crossed the meadow end to work up the dewy 
side of it. Now, a Mississippi valley meadow 
is something other than a meadow like they used 
to have back York State way. It is a real 
meadow. For miles and miles, stretching first 
on one side of the Mississippi and then on the 
other, you can see the spots that are subject to 
overflow. In Iowa, Minnesota and Wisconsin 
this is particularly true. The land is not broken 
up because the river has a habit of turning all 
the plans of men at naught when she wants to 
cavort about on land a vdiile. The low places 
are all meadows, and often are twenty or more 
miles in length, and the only thing that shuts 
them off from each other is the one and two- 
wire fence of the barbed type which sometimes 
divides the land. 
Our meadow was seven miles in length and 
as wide as the flat land back to the bluffs, near¬ 
ly ten miles. Here and there it was broken by 
patches of swale grass, copses of willows, and 
the hay only having been cut where the land 
was dryest, made the waving stiff grass that 
stood seem like little islands dotting a sound. 
Cornfields of more or less pretentions were scat¬ 
tered here and there through the meadows, as 
if the farmers who planted and reaped on the 
higher ground had been afraid of wasting seed 
in doubtful soil. 
We contented ourselves with the thought that 
the last end of the hunt is the best end, and 
that we knew the birds were about somewhere, 
and we would eventually find them. By 10 
o’clock we had skirted another piece of mowed 
meadow, and sent the dogs into a few bunches 
of scrub willows. Then we looked at each other 
and sat down. 
Charlie allowed they had gone over into the 
lower lands along the bluffs where water could 
be had without exposing themselves. The dogs 
allowed they had worked hard enough until they 
could lie in the water awhile. This from their 
actions. Our council of war resulted in a de¬ 
termination to take them at any cost, so we 
hastened three miles to a spot along a slough 
in the meadow. It was noon. The dogs had 
been heeled, and were put on cords and allowed 
the freedom of the water. They rolled in it 
and sloshed about in the mud until they seemed 
to have enough, every now and then drinking 
great mouthsful of it. We pulled a bit of hay 
out of a stack and lay in the shade of that 
low rick. 
After lunch we started again, working out the 
low covers, the tall grasses, willows and plum 
thickets. Birds? They had literally taken to 
wing and left the vicinity. From one side of 
the slough to the other we passed and thrashed. 
Then we went down long rows of scraggly corn. 
Fhe dogs were beginning to peter out, and yet 
the pup’s bone and muscle kept him gingering 
up every now and then, while the old dog, famed 
for his choke-bored nose and hardened sinews, 
gradually dropped to the rear. His ten years 
were telling. 
We worked toward the river again, and thought 
we might perhaps get into the covey along the 
pasture fence or brush here and there. Down 
the path we sauntered, the pup ahead, tail up 
and nose to the earth, fearful lest he should 
miss a scent. Just as we turned into a thicket 
of willows, bordered on one side by a patch of 
corn, the pup ran through the maize and scared 
seven birds to wing. Dropping our guns from 
shoulder we watched them sail and drop in a 
nice piece of high grass. There must have been 
five acres of it. Being out of range and the 
birds too concealed in the tops of the corn, 
gave us no chance for a fair shot. 
The old dog, again smelling business in the 
air, stiffened up and began to swing his tail. 
Hardly had ge gotten into the cover where the 
birds had dropped than old Mike and the pup 
were making a point, the elder backing. Charlie 
went up to the puppy and kneed him into the 
single bird, for he never would have gone into 
it alone. With a heart-quickening whirr the 
bird made off straight away. Smokeless powder 
did its work easily and quickly. The pup was 
watched closely while the old dog retrieved. 
Then both of them started into the cover at the 
left and nailed another bird in the tuft of grass 
at the edge of the slough. Charlie scored an 
early hatched bird of wonderful breast develop¬ 
ment, hard and full rounded. 
The shots and the dogs must have scared the 
other birds. While I stood at one side where 
I could plainly see a mowed opening, scooting 
across went the other five birds bunched so close 
that a newspaper would have covered them. We 
sent the dogs into the new bit of swale grass, 
but they failed to get a point. While they were 
hunting out the cover fully, Charlie cried: “Over 
this way, quick. They have gone across into the 
uncut piece.” 
“Haven’t they got wings?” I bantered. 
“They don’t use them, however,” he replied, 
running to catch the pup who was reluctant to 
leave the hot scent in the cover. And they kept 
ahead of us from one piece of uncut grass to 
another, and finally got into the corn where the 
dogs could not find them. Once in a while one 
of the setters would drop his nose to the ground 
in the corn as though a bird had immediately 
ahead of him rushed afoot over the soil. Then he 
would act puzzled for a time and finally give it up. 
And thus we spent the remaining hours of 
daylight, seeking but not finding. They had 
foiled the noses of the dogs and brains of us 
who sought to apply our field learning. Two 
little birds out of seven fine rascals, and fifty 
or more within striking distance! They would 
be there another day, we figured, but when the 
other day came we could not find them. We 
devoted ten or twelve days that fall to those 
phantom coveys and finally gave it up, thinking 
that if they were made of that sort of stuff, 
they would be just the sort we wanted to trap 
and carry over where we could free them in the 
spring to again nest in the meadows about our 
favorite haunts. 
The fall was a beautiful one. We sat in the 
boats, teasing the bass with pickeled minnows the 
last of November. The sky was as clear as a 
day in June. The sun was warm and the whole 
scheme of outdoor life was perfect. 
“Hear that?” asked Charlie, raising his head 
and shoving an ear over toward the Minnesota 
shore. 
“Hear what?” I demanded. 
“Those five birds are running yet! But I 
guess they are scattered now, for I heard one 
call to the other. Listen!” 
The whistle sounded as plain as could be. 
“We will find out more about where they lie 
for sun baths and where they dig for the sumac 
berries when a light snow comes,” I said. 
Below the Average. 
Berlin, N. Y., Feb. 9.— Editor Forest and 
Stream: The amount of fur taken this season 
has been below the average, the catch of mink, 
muskrat and skunk being very small. ’Coons 
and foxes constitute the bulk of the furs taken. 
One trapper took fourteen foxes and enough 
smaller furs to bring a total of $114. Edward 
Robertson, of Glens Falls, whose success last 
year was phenomenal, reports a season below the 
average. Sandy. 
