73 2 
[May ii, 1907. 
and located them along the fence on the east 
side of the field. This we also hunted out care¬ 
fully and found nothing. Then by the elimina¬ 
tion theory I knew the birds had gone to the 
west fence and we hurried across to it, I feel¬ 
ing confident of finding them at last. Not so 
much as a cold scent rewarded this effort. 
Very much puzzled, and somewhat discouraged, 
I suggested every location in sight, each one of 
which we carefully and patiently worked out, 
the result being the same. I have never seen 
one of those birds since, for we hunted that 
covey no more. Failing to find a covey after 
flushing it once is no unusual occurrence, but to 
lose so large a covey in such open country and 
not once, but several times, as my friend assured 
me he had done, savored too much of the occult. 
There was little of the afternoon left when we 
finally gave up hunting the now-you-see-them- 
and-now-you-don’t birds, and we concluded to 
swing around by the stubble where Bob had 
found the birds the evening before and from 
there home. We found only three birds scat¬ 
tered along a brushy dry ditch, which we ac¬ 
counted for by the presence of a piratical look¬ 
ing hawk that flew up just out of gun shot as 
we approached. He had probably harried them 
a short time before our arrival and scattered 
them in the thicket. 
The first bird came out on my side, affording 
an easy straightaway shot. The next one went 
straight down the middle of the ditch through 
the thicket, taking no chances. The third one 
flushed near me, but turned and flew back up 
the ditch directly toward my companion, who 
was on the other side some distance back. I 
saw that to shoot would endanger him, and ob¬ 
serving that he was very much engaged with a 
big treetop over which he was climbing, con¬ 
cluded that another bird was to escape. But 
I underestimated his resourcefulness, for, with 
his best leg over a big limb, and both hands 
fully occupied, he managed to swing his gun 
over the left shoulder and kill the bird, after it 
passed him, although I could almost swear he 
did not get turned round far enough to see it. 
That night after supper we discussed the mys¬ 
tery of the disappearing birds with the Doctor, 
who was much interested, but as completely 
puzzled as ourselves. 
“I know but one man who can explain the 
mystery and that is Uncle Bill,” he finally said. 
[‘Uncle Bill never disappoints any seeker after 
information, and when he comes in after awhile 
we will get his theory. I heard him recently 
explaining to some of the little fellows the 
mystery of the appearance and disappearance of 
the bullfrogs and snow birds: 
“ ‘In de spring,’ he said, ‘de snow birds all tu’n 
to bullfrogs, an’ in de fall de bullfrogs all tu’n 
back to snow birds. Dis ain’ no tale nor guess. 
I done see de bullfrogs wid fedders still stickin’ 
to' um.’ ” 
When Uncle Bill came in with the wood we 
referred the matter of the birds to him, giving 
full particulars. Evidently much flattered he 
asked several questions and then said: 
_ “I wan’ tell you gen’men dat dese here pat- 
ridge buds is plum sma’t, all of um. An’ dey 
is tricky too, des tricky as a mule. De ones 
what you caint fin’ is des little smatah den de 
res, dat all.” 
“But what becomes of them?” we urged. 
“Dey go in sink hole, ev’y one of dem,” said 
he with solemn emphasis. “Des fly to sink hole 
and run plum down into it, an’ dah dev is.” 
“I believe you are right, Uncle Bill,” said 
Charlie, “and as there is not a sign of a sink 
hole to be seen anywhere within a mile of where 
these birds use I believe they pull the hole in 
after them.” 
“Well,” said he with some little hesitation, 
“I ain’ nevah heah nobody say dey didn’.” 
Lewis Hopkins. 
CAMP SUPPLIES. 
Camp supplies should include Borden’s Eagle 
Brand Condensed Milk. Peerless Brand Evapor¬ 
ated Milk and Borden’s Malted Milk, all of 
which contain substantial and compact nourish¬ 
ment, and supplying every milk or cream require¬ 
ment.— Adv. 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
THE TOP RAIL. 
“That it is possible for a man and a well- 
trained bird-dog to capture a partridge or 
ruffed grouse unassisted by the use of a gun,” 
writes A. F. Wells, “was proven one day last 
fall, by J. R. Penoyer and Brownlee Robinson, 
of New Haven. Whether or not the feat is 
possible or impossible has been a much dis¬ 
puted and much argued question among the 
sportsmen and wing shots, who frequent 
Bassett’s gun store on Church street. Here is 
what Mr. Penoyer tells: 
“He and ‘Brownie’ Robinson went shooting, 
as they always do, on Oct. 1. Their success 
was indifferent, but Bob walked into Bassett’s 
that evening, and withdrawing from the 
pocket of his shooting coat a beautiful speci¬ 
men of an old cock partridge, placed it on the 
counter, and remarked: 
“ ‘Them patridge be a hardy bird and no 
mistake. Brownie caught that one in his hands, 
but he’s home in bed now getting rested, and I 
doubt if he’ll be able to take another tramp be¬ 
fore Oct. 1, 1907.’ 
“The crowd sat up and began to take notice, 
and Bob continued: 
“ ‘Brownie and I went over in the Turkey 
Hill section, out Orange way, this morning. It 
was hot and the leaves were too thick for 
shooting, still we got down five woodcockers 
and a couple of patridge. About 3 o’clock we 
was settin’ on a rail fence that bounds Johnnie 
Merwin’s big pasture lot, Brownie says, “Bob, 
let’s cut across and get the machine and home 
for us.” 
“ ‘ “All right,” says I, “home it is, but I’d 
like to know where that last bird dropped; I 
marked her down about here.” 
“ ‘Just ahead of us, running kitty-corner 
across the pasture was an old stone wall and 
nothing beyond for a quarter of a mile. We 
started along with the dogs trailing around 
just as they do in -open lots. Up near the stone 
wall Mack made game and Brownie’s dog 
came around backing him on as stiff and as 
pretty a point as you ever put your peeps on. 
“ ‘ “Flock of quail,” said Brownie, as we stood 
looking at the dogs; “what a picture they would 
make!” 
“ ‘We moved up a little, agreeing not to shoot 
quail, because they were scarce, having winter- 
killed for three or four seasons. Coming up 
with the dogs both standing staunch, Brownie 
says, “I guess rabbit in the wall,” and he 
stepped forward, at the same time calling to his 
dog, when buz-z-z, whir-r-r-r—up jumps an old 
patridge and sails away across the pasture just 
as open as though flying from the flag pole in 
the green toward Thomas Trowbridge’s house 
on Elm street. I brought my gun up and let 
the bird go what I thought just easy shooting 
distance. I pulled the trigger, the gun went, 
nothing dropped. I pulled the other barrel, it 
went, nothing dropped, not even a feather 
floated off in the air—but that old patridge was 
still a-heading for a clump of white birches half 
a mile away, going like a cannon ball. I watched 
her, expecting every minute to see her drop. 
She didn’t, but finally set her wings and disap¬ 
peared in the birches. I couldn’t even swear. 
“ ‘Brownie looked at me, one of those funny 
looks he has, and I said, “Why didn’t you 
shoot?” 
“‘“Shoot!” says he, “suffering hay rakes! I 
didn’t come out here to shoot at a mark.” 
“ ‘That madded me, and I just informed the 
Hon. J. B. R. that I’d have that bird, if I had 
to stay on Turkey Hill till Christmas. Calling 
the dogs, I started for the birches. Brownie 
followed along, chaffing me every step until we 
reached the birches. The dogs circled two or 
three times, and Pet was making game, when 
Mack (the old fool) flushed the bird. We 
watched her going through the tops of some 
chestnuts out of gunshot. After I had whaled 
Mack and let out some mad, we pushed on, 
Brownie having marked the bird down on a 
nobble to the north. He took one side with 
his dog and I the other. The bird got up wild 
and I watched her fly back across the pasture 
to a clump of bushes we hunted before we 
raised her in the stone wall. 
“ ‘It was Brownie’s time to get mad now, and j 
he vowed he’d have the bird if he stayed till 
New Years. “She’ll lie closer next time,” says 
he, as we piked back across the pasture. The 
dogs made game in the edge of the bushes and 
up the bird jumped. Neither of us saw her, but 
Brownie let go both barrels, hoping to frighten 
her, and so make her lie on the next point. I 
marked her down in a little swamp full of briars. 
“ ‘Well, to make a long story short, we 
chased that bird for another hour, raised her 
three times and I don’t know but more. Neither 
of us could get a shot, and we did not shoot 
at her again. Finally it began to grow dark, and 
the last time she flushed I noticed she only 
flew a few rods and dropped into some little 
bushes that grew around a boggy swale. 
“ ‘Brownie got around in a good place, and 
I took an opening also; both dogs were point¬ 
ing stiff as ramrods into the bushes, where I 
had seen her drop. Brownie ordered the dogs 
on, and we stood expecting every second to 
see the bird bile out, but she did not come. We 
could urge the dogs no further; both stood 
quivering from jowl to tail. Finally Brownie 
walked in behind his dog, and carefully pushing 
the brush aside, said, “I can see the bird. She 
is sitting by that log with her wings down, bill 
open and panting like an old hen.” 
“ ‘ “Don’t let the dogs catch her,” I replied. 
“ ‘ “Well, you’ll have to shoot her when she 
comes out. I’m too close and she’s headed to¬ 
ward you,” he replied. 
“‘Brownie walked a little closer and still the 
bird lay quiet. Suddenly I saw him make a 
grab and the next instant he held the fluttering 
bird aloft, wringing its neck. “There,” he said; 
“you old sinner! I said I’d have you and I’ve 
got you.” 
“ ‘That’s the bird there,’ concluded Bob, ‘and 
there’s not a shot mark on her.’ 
“ ‘If any one but you had told the yarn, Bob,’ 
said Clate Redfield, ‘I’d a said it was a lie.’ 
“It was estimated after the story was told 
that the two sportsmen traveled about five miles 
before the partridge was captured.” 
* * * 
Not long ago several wood disks, one foot in 
diameter, painted white, and each provided with 
a line and a lead weight, were ■ placed in the 
Pool in Central Park, this city, by the Anglers’ 
Club, for targets for fly- and bait-casting. As a 
granitoid walk adjoins the eastern end of the 
Pool, and the targets furthest from the casting 
platform are near this walk, thousands of park 
visitors worry the lives out of the policemen and 
park employes with questions relative to the pur¬ 
pose of the white disks. They have been asked 
if the strange things are early lilypads and— 
everything under the sun an idle lounger can 
imagine. One of the patrolmen told me the other 
day that his naturally sweet temper had been 
ruined since the appearance of “them things.” 
But the most curious question of all was fired 
at me one day as I watched the anglers practic¬ 
ing. _ I 
“Are those tin cans used in fish breeding?’ 
asked a visitor. # . I 
“What cans?” I queried, not grasping his 
meaning. 
“Why, those tin cans in the lake.” 
“Oh! No, those are targets.” 
A gentleman entered a fishing tackle shop the 
other day, and remarked to the dealer, “Now 
that the fly-fishing season is open, I want some 
sinkers.” 
Grizzly King. 
