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In Near-By Covers. 
"Come back, come back, bright days, from out the 
dreamy past.” 
No dream this, but a mental retrospective pic¬ 
ture of hilly country—thickets of bay berry and 
brier—flashing maples, golden birches and ruddy 
oaks, a picture whose vivid coloring deepened 
in direct ratio as November first drew nearer 
day by day. November first, magic day for a 
country-bred Long Island boy or man. How¬ 
ever, no rose without a thorn. In the midst of 
plans for that wonderful day I made a careful 
calculation concerning two patients on hand, com¬ 
ing to the conclusion that the stork was due in 
each case on Nov. i. 
Talk about a dash of cold water and depres¬ 
sion of spirits! Nevertheless, accidents may 
happen, so I looked over the cartridges anyway 
and fondled the gun, my old tried friend on 
many a tramp. What a deal of satisfaction 
there is in planning a shooting trip, handling the 
shells, throwing the gun up and many more— 
to the uninitiated—fool capers. It has its origin 
in our boyhood when we assorted our fire crack¬ 
ers and fixed them in rows this way and that 
way. 
Fate was kind to me this time and during the 
last week in October the stork appeared, and in 
a certain office there was an expansive smile. 
The train was scheduled to leave for my home 
town at 7:11 P. M. I left town on the 6:10, 
although starting with the intention of catching 
the 7:11. An inch of a miss may be as good as 
a mile in some cases, but the rear lights of a 
disappearing train are not conducive to happi¬ 
ness in the mind of a “left behind.” 
“S-1,” bawled out the train hand. Ah! 
my station. It was good to tread the old soil 
once more, to walk to my boyhood’s home under 
the stars—such stars, masses of them—each in¬ 
dividual star clear cut as a diamond, and sweep¬ 
ing through them appeared the milky way, a 
celestial river of light. 
Home at last, and after getting “talked dry” 
off to bed—the same old bed—in my old room. 
Everything as I left it nearly a score years ago. 
The clank of milking pails awoke me. It was 
barely light; too dark to do any shooting, yet 
the morning air was bracing and good to breathe. 
So, sandwich in pocket and gun on shoulder, 
away to the woods. There was promise of a 
glorious day. The tinge of gold in the east 
deepened and broadened. Never have I seen a 
more glorious sunrise. The gold deepened to 
a mass of crimson with purple clouds radiating 
fan-like to the zenith. A narrow crescent moon, 
rapidly paling, hung just above the crimson. 
Not a breath of air stirred. It seemed as though 
nature herself was hushed before the gorgeous 
spectacle. 
Shooting was not in my mind. I sat on a 
fence rail and absorbed nature till at last a flam¬ 
ing ball of fire sent myriads of flashing beams 
of light dancing over the frost-covered brambles. 
It had been agreed that I was to meet my 
cousins back of the swamp, hence it behooved 
me to hasten. A steep hickory-crested hill had 
to be climbed, the base of which consisted of 
briers, hazel shoots and a substratum of fern, 
wild ginger and Solomon seal. Scarcely had I 
entered this tangled paradise than whee-e-e-e 
e-e-e! a big fat woodcock rocketed away to the 
accompaniment of a spiteful crack of nitro, but 
the only execution done was to cut in two a 
chestnut sapling. 
Never mind, the bird pitched behind a clump 
of golden rod. No surprise this time; it was 
first blood for the day. 
Among the hickories on the hill some domestic 
trouble was brewing among the squirrel family. 
Such a chattering, barking and scolding among 
the leaves. Evidently a pair of grays were ex¬ 
changing the latest thing in profanity. During 
the harangue one squirrel spied me and made 
a wild leap for a neighboring limb to be met 
in mid air by a charge of No. 8 shot. The other 
squirrel holed in time to save his skin. 
My cousins Lou, A 1 and “Bub” were evidently 
back of the swamp, for an occasional report and 
the yelping of Sport proved that the cottontails 
were leading a strenuous existence. By the time 
I reached them they had already bagged several 
rabbits. 
Our objective point was an old pasture lot over¬ 
grown with briers, sweet fern and cedar scrub, 
flanked by an abandoned orchard, an ideal place 
for rabbits; so I thought as, pushing my foot 
through the dried top of a fallen cedar, I almost 
trod on a cottontail which zig-zagged through 
the cover while I endeavored to free myself 
from an entanglement of cat briers which rapidly 
traced a railroad map in red on the back of my 
trigger hand. 
Sport eagerly nosed the trail, but among such 
brambles it was tough work for the dog and the 
tip of his tail soon matched in color the sumac 
crimson. Nearer and nearer drew the hound 
as the game circled. Evidently the rabbit would 
cross that open space ahead. There was a slight 
movement of the sweet fern tips, then out buzzed 
a quail and down he came with a feather float¬ 
ing lazily away. The gun was still at my shoul¬ 
der, when the rabbit came hustling along, to 
be greeted with my second barrel, falling within 
six inches of the quail. Evidently he had flushed 
Bob White. It was a case of fur and feather, 
a coincidence hard to repeat. Several more 
hares fell in that pasture. 
Bub, who was walking to one side of a cedar 
hedge, flushed another quail. His aim was per¬ 
fect. Had he used a rifle the quail would even 
then have fallen, for wad and all struck that 
bird, one wing and feathers plus quail meat 
were on every twig within ten feet. In an¬ 
swer to a query as to what he was trying to 
do he merely answered, “I got him.” 
By this time our hunting coats began to drag 
on our necks and a unanimous cry made for 
lunch, which certainly was delicious, even if our 
table was an old tomato crate, and our cup a 
tomato can. The best part of hunting is not 
always the killing. What a panorama spread 
out before us as we sat! For thirty miles in 
either direction the country unrolled itself, on 
one side the sound with its white sails, far away 
to the south the ocean, Hempstead Plains to the 
west and Cold Spring Valley to the east. The 
undulating hills mantled in the beautiful colors 
nature alone can paint fading in the purple dis¬ 
tance. It was good to merely be alive. 
Shortly after our lunch occurred one of those 
unexplainable affairs; namely, the possibility of 
a rabbit emptying every gun barrel and yet es¬ 
caping. This one did. Probably the dinner was 
too much for us, for that rabbit offered an easy 
shot on perfectly open ground; no cover. We 
all knew he was coming, but missed. Yet in 
half an hour my cousins were hitting empty 
twelve-gauge shells thrown in the air. 
While crossing an old field waist high with 
withered mullein stalks, golden rod and other 
weeds, I noticed a dog within forty feet. He 
was partly hidden by the grasses, but appeared 
to be a young reddish-brown setter, pottering 
along, smelling at this clump and that bunch 
of weeds, and gradually circling behind me. In 
a few minutes I heard a yell, “There goes a 
fox.” Sure enough, over the top of a neighbor¬ 
ing hill, a hundred yards away, went my “dog.” 
It was a shrewd piece of work on his part to 
throw me off my guard by seeming indifferent, 
and when behind me and out of sight to streak 
it for cover. I had probably disturbed him dur¬ 
ing his afternoon siesta. 
Many a fox have I hunted and killed, but this 
one fooled me completely. It forms a very 
pleasant recollection as an instance of brute 
sagacity. 
The short day was all too rapidly passing. 
Lengthening shadows turned our steps home¬ 
ward. At the edge of a corn field, from a 
thicket of cedar and sassafras, came a roar, a 
nebulous flash of brown which disappeared as 
quickly. May this grand grouse be there next 
year if he has not broken his neck by exceed¬ 
ing the speed limit. 
Our bag that day consisted of twenty-one rab¬ 
bits, four squirrels, two woodcock and three 
quail. 
Concerning the game of this section of Long 
Island: It is not so many years ago that I have 
known bevies of quail to come trotting along 
the lane within fifty yards of the house. I have 
flushed woodcock from rich bottom land within 
a few yards of the garden wall. Rabbits were 
a pest and squirrels gnawed holes in the corn 
crib to get at the corn. One Sunday, during 
those halcyon days, while tramping through the 
woods, I flushed fifteen ruffed grouse within 
a space of two hundred yards. 
Conditions have changed. Quail are scarce. 
A closed season of three years is needed. Severe 
late winters have helped to deplete the-all-too- 
rapidly thinning ranks. I have found tiny skele¬ 
tons in orderly circles when the drifts melted 
away in the spring. 
Weasels and foxes, especially foxes, have in¬ 
creased in numbers. Owls, crows and stray cats 
