FOREST AND STREAM 
853 
THE FUN OF IT ALL 
The Size of the Bag does not Measure the 
Real Joy of the Hunt. 
By Sumner Crosby 
A NTICIPATION, realization, reminiscence; 
and the greatest of these is—realization! 
No doubt, for that is the supreme mo¬ 
ment; however, that moment may be actually 
lived but once. With what joy and how many 
times has the same moment been lived in antici¬ 
pation, and how unlimited the number of times 
it will be lived as an assured fact, either in 
pleasant reverie, or as your contribution to the 
company of good fellows. Did all of the joy 
lie in realization, then a sportsman’s happiness 
were abridged indeed. 
Many of us will confess to dreams of a 
sportsman’s paradise in which we have pictured 
ourselves. What sport, could we sally forth 
with our modern equipment into the vast game 
preserve that this country comprised a hundred 
years ago. How many of us have not at some 
time exclaimed, “Just once I would like to shoot 
all I wanted to.” 
There are numerous sportsmen who have at 
some time been in such favorable circumstances 
as to shoot themselves tired. Let such a shooter 
tell of the day he got just right in the line of 
flight, and how they came along so fast that 
there was no time to chase the cripples, and he 
had to shove his gun overboard every once in a 
while to prevent burning his fingers. 
You may have exclaimed; “Some morning’s 
shooting. Say! but wouldn’t I like a chance 
like that!” As a matter of fact, judging from 
your own experience, you did not know there 
were so many birds; but as you revolve the tale 
over in your mind, doesn’t it gradually dawn 
upon you that that was not the real sport you 
thought it was? There was no eye straining 
wait, no nerve bracing period of uncertainty 
after the flock swung in sight, no special satis¬ 
faction in retrieving the pair you caught so neat¬ 
ly with your right and left, and no period of 
admiringly smoothing the ruffled feathers while 
anxiously scanning the horizon, with the oft 
muttered: “It’s a perfect morning, I ought to 
get several shots before the tide turns.” 
The shooting he described was not true sport 
after he had taken toll from the first half dozen 
flocks. After that he was not receiving full 
measure of enjoyment for the great sacrifice he 
was exacting from Nature. The weasel destroys 
an entire flock of fowl, but it would not do so 
could it reason; and man is a reasoning animal. 
Perhaps he wanted to bring down more birds 
than the occupants of the other boats, but the 
day of contests for the greatest number of kills 
is of the past, and such questions of prowess 
may readily, and had better be, decided at the 
traps. One shot was as like its successors as 
peas in a pod. There was no individuality, no 
distinguishing feature to entitle, it to a lasting 
niche in his memory. We fully appreciate those 
things only that we procure by our own specific 
endeavors, and we know that the greater the 
endeavor required the greater the appreciation. 
The acquiring of the coveted object is a transi¬ 
tory pleasure; however, add some special cir¬ 
cumstances under which we succeeded and it be¬ 
comes a permanent possession and a joy forever. 
Moreover, did you note the animation that 
same brother sportsman displayed when the con¬ 
versation drifted to the upland and to grouse, 
and he related how a certain old cock had a 
habit of fooling him; the one that used to hang 
out on the side hill near the large cedar swamp 
and would dart into the swamp without rising 
above the scrub? He declared war on the old 
chap and pulling on his hip waders, painfully 
and laboriously forced his way through the 
swamp and routed out the enemy by a flank 
movement, and how even at that his Royal High¬ 
ness made such a quiet getaway that he fell at 
sixty yards if an inch. Which tale did he seem 
to enjoy relating the most; and which struck 
the more responsive chord in his audience? 
And remember, your equipment plays no mean 
part in the day’s pleasure. If you question this 
recall some shoot that you joined at the last mo¬ 
ment; a friend loaned you one of his guns, a 
good one too, but it did not feel just right, and 
you did not enter upon that hunt with the usual 
zest; there was something lacking. As a gun 
lover it may be that you had a gun made for you, 
a twenty perhaps; anyway it is the child of your 
imagination, the embodiment in steel and walnut 
of your idea of the right gun for you. In the 
privacy of your den you have taken many a 
snap at the door knob and the clock dial, and 
in every case it has come to a dead center. Now 
you are off at last, and not to aim at hypothet¬ 
ical grouse. 
As you stroll along the woodland path you are 
happily conscious of the slender grip in your 
right hand, and with the velvety black tubes 
poised at ready you cast many a fond and ad¬ 
miring glance at your new pet. In fact that is 
just what you were doing when that pair got 
up and—Glory Be! you made a double! 
Perhaps you did not get another shot on that 
walk; but you came home radiating contentment, 
the long desired opportunity arose and your 
choice was vindicated; the little gun was not 
found wanting, and for many moons whenever 
your gaze rests upon the twenty there will arise 
a vision of an incident that will bring a sparkle 
to your eyes and relax all lines of worry. 
Did you ever figure out a trip for the week¬ 
end afternoon? First you would go over by the 
swamp, then you would follow the brook road 
for a mile until it reached the Mill Pond; of 
course you would take a peek in there, for on 
two never to be forgotten occasions you have 
found duck in it. Well, they were not there 
this time, but you felt quite smart watching two 
muskrats building a house; and then you went 
over to the deserted farm and there, down in 
the further corner of the decaying orchard, they 
went up; six of them. You were very much oc¬ 
cupied for the next quarter of an hour and 
when you emerged from the scrubs there were 
three of those large brown birds in the lining 
of your coat. You were, of course, very dis¬ 
consolate and unhappy as you leaned against 
the rail fence and filled your pipe preparatory 
to the hike for home. At this same time in 
more favored circumstances there may have been 
brother sportsmen accompanied by gun carriers 
and beaters whose bag ran into the dozens, but 
their cup of happiness had absolutely nothing on 
yours, for yours was running over. 
You and I both know men who take their 
guns each morning and sally forth to this or 
that cross-roads. They hope to intercept Sir 
Reynard, but it is not necessary to their happi¬ 
ness that they bring him to bag. Not at all. 
In fact they really do not expect to secure a 
brush, though they always have strong hopes. 
If their happiness depended upon the size of the 
bag they would not hunt, or hunting they would 
be a miserable lot. But let’s not save our pity 
for them; they do not need it; whether they 
connect or not they are happy tramping the 
frosty roads to the accompaniment of a canine 
symphony, and to them the concert alone is well 
worth all the effort. 
There is an old hackneyed expression to the 
(Continued on page 873.) 
