FORES T AND S T R E A M 
707 
Iicen in Virginia, the Carolinas, Alabama, Louisi¬ 
ana and Mississippi, besides the hunts in Massa¬ 
chusetts. There are never disputes or any other 
unpleasantness over a shot or the way a certain 
bird flew, etc. 
This chap, now lying a few feet away from my 
-eat—probably dreaming of a hunt that we have 
in contemplation toward West Brimfield, a fam¬ 
ous cover, within a short time—is not a prize 
winner, nor has he ever been entered anywhere 
save in all kinds of fields and covers, yet I have 
not seen nor hunted with a canine of any breed 
that will demonstrate more genuine nerve and 
stamina. He has an excellent nose, is under 
fairly safe control. As a younger dog he was al¬ 
most too fast for grouse shooting, yet we have 
bagged quite a lot of birds in the old New Eng¬ 
land hills. 
On one occasion, while hunting quail in the 
•south, a winged bird fell under a barb wire 
fence. Intent upon catching the bird the dog 
had the tip of his ear ripped open by a barb. A 
capillary artery of sufficient size to bleed was 
cut; the blood was stopped half a dozen or more 
times by simple compression, but upon re-enter¬ 
ing the cover the bleeding started afresh. I 
should have stopped then and there and gone 
home. However, the dog showed no possible 
evidence of distress—on the contrary he was 
eager to hunt. It was an unusually fine terri¬ 
tory for quail. As far as I could determine there 
was no defect in the dog’s hunting quality or of 
his schedule. He was then an exceptionally fast 
hunter. We bagged twenty-two quail. At sun¬ 
down when 1 removed the shells from the gun 
to get into the buggy, the dog flung himself 
down in the grass and could not be coaxed to 
He Has an Excellent Nose. 
move until I lifted him up and into the buggy. 
It was my intention, of course, to ride him home, 
but he usually climbed with fore-feet on the 
step and was lifted in. There he was now, sim¬ 
ply all in. The hunt was ended and he did not 
care to go another step. I really believe that 
he would have stayed where he tumbled down 
by the roadside, had I not lifted him into the 
buggy. 
As you may imagine I did not enjoy the end¬ 
ing of that hunt nor the ride home, principally 
because of the work of a very remorseful con¬ 
science. Then I tried amends by making my 
companion—wounded in the cause—as comfort¬ 
able as possible. When we returned to the tem¬ 
porary home, a warm soft bed was made in a 
large box on the back piazza—and just under the 
window to my bedroom, so that I could play the 
part of nurse in the night if necessary. A large 
bowl of warm mush and milk was fixed up for 
the wounded soldier’s supper, and after seeing 
him eat his fill and wag his tail, 1 was satisfied 
that his nerve would pull him through. He 
looked up to say that it was all right with him, 
groaned in expression of weariness and went 
promptly to sleep. Of course, the hemorrhage 
had long since stopped, but the following morn¬ 
ing I was almost forced to laugh when I looked 
at my dog. All that I could think of was an old 
Jersey wagon hack, bereft of its curtains. My 
dear dog did look like the ragged edge of an ill- 
spent life. With test and good food he rapidly 
recuperated. During that winter spent in Dixie, 
we bagged nearly five hundred quail, besides 
quite a number of Jack sripe. 
But I regret to have to inform my friend the 
commissioner, that our game millenium is not yet. 
A Mixture of Psychology, Partridge and the .22 Automatic 
I T had snowed steadily all night, a heavy, 
wet snow, and when morning came it 
had just cleared off, a bright, warm day, 
with every branch and twig covered to the limit 
•of possibility with its load of soggy snow which 
•was simply dazzling in the strong sunshine. It 
was doubtless a beautiful sight—but not to me 
—as it rendered brush shooting a practical im¬ 
possibility, or at least so disagreeable as to 
-amount to the same thing. And I wanted to get 
■out in the woods, but I knew very well that if 
I once found myself near any cover with my 
;gun that in I’d go, wet snow notwithstanding. 
So, to play it safe I started off with the little 
.22 automatic, having in mind the chance of a 
squirrel or a stray rabbit. I’d be out in the 
woods and fields, which was the main thing. 
A squirrel flashed around a tree and disappeared 
in a hole seemingly only a few inches from 
where a big red-headed woodpecker was indus¬ 
triously pounding away on a dead chestnut stub 
with all the power of his tireless neck muscles. 
'Thinking that the squirrel would soon venture 
•out I scraped away the snow from the roots of 
a big hemlock and sat down to wait. The wood¬ 
pecker soon finished his drilling operations and 
started off after another contract, with his curi¬ 
ous, flickering flight. I waited patiently for a 
"half hour or more, but as the gray did not ap¬ 
pear I resolved to give it up as a bad job. 
As I rose, a little cramped from my position, 
I indulged myself in the luxury of a long stretch 
and was right in the middle of it when some- 
By Frederick L. Coe. 
thing happened. A roar like an express train 
came from above my head and I looked up in 
amazement just in time to get a fine young ava¬ 
lanche of snow full in the face, and through it 
to catch a fleeting glimpse of a great partridge 
crashing out of the snow laden branches. 
Having a good idea of where the partridge 
was headed, and knowing the country as well 
as I did, I was pretty certain where he would 
light, in a patch of side hill birches near a lot 
of second growth hemlocks. Out of curiosity 
I resolved to follow and see if I could get a 
good rise. Maybe I didn’t wish for my old 
brush gun about then. So hurrying through 
the woods I approached the birches, picking out 
the lines of least resistance as to thickness and 
wetness of the brush. I circled around and 
through the cover as well as possible without 
any result, and had about concluded that he was 
a long flight bird and had volplaned down the 
hill to the tamarack swamp when I heard a sub¬ 
dued clucking. For an instant I did not realize 
that it was the partridge, it sounded so differ¬ 
ent from the usual cluck or more a peeping 
which I understand is nearly always made by the 
female. 
I was standing in a little glade, the easterly 
slope of which was there thickly covered with 
clumps of witch hazel with the white birches 
growing just behind. The clucking increased 
and I was almost paralyzed ith surprise to sud¬ 
denly see a huge cock partridge step out of the 
brush and stand in the open glade. He looked 
as large as a turkey, the ruff fully extended and 
the beautiful fan all spread out. And he actu¬ 
ally seemed mad at something—possibly at my 
following him. He was about fifteen yards 
away, and at that distance with the sun directly 
behind him he looked absolutely black against 
the background of snow, the delicate yellow 
shading of the witch hazel blossoms blending in 
as a touch of color. 
Almost afraid to breathe, each instant expect¬ 
ing to see him fly, I slowly raised the little auto¬ 
matic, took careful aim at his head and fired. 
At the report he fairly shot into the air, and 1 
wondered if he was going to tower as a par¬ 
tridge shot through the brain so often does, but 
it was only a convulsive leap and he collapsed, 
the strong wings beating the snow. 
I have always wondered what caused the bird 
to appear as he did, coming directly out of the 
thick brush. He must have both seen and heard 
me, as I was plainly visible, walking up the 
glade. Never have I heard of a partridge per¬ 
forming such antics before or since, though 1 
have seen them scurry around on the ground 
early in the season when coming on them sud¬ 
denly. But this chap was so evidently mad at 
something—presumably me—like nothing so 
much as an old hen with chickens. It was the 
first,—and probably the last—bird that I’ve shot 
with a rifle. And last but not least I hit him in 
(he head—where I aimed—which to me is the 
most surprising thing in the entire proceedings. 
