June 25,, 1910.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
1009 
Like one dreaming I was dimly conscious of 
the man striding past and up to the dog, and 
then of the roar of beating wings as a great 
brown bird burst out of the grass a few inches 
from the dog’s nose. Consciousness then re¬ 
turned and I fixed my attention upon the man 
to see how he would meet the crisis. 
The gun flew to his shoulder as he lightly 
swung on the ball of his extended foot, and as 
the bird reached the twenty-yard line, it cracked, 
and back into the grass pitched the brown king, 
clean killed. Yes, he could shoot. 
The dog waited patiently the reloading of the 
gun—muzzleloader—and the word of command 
to fetch, and it seemed to me that surely no 
more beautiful sight was ever vouchsafed mortal 
than that of the grand dog bringing in over the 
brown and gold cover the splendid bird. 
It seemed almost too good to be true when the 
man passed the bird to me with the question: 
“Can you carry it?” I tried to conceal my 
eagerness as I reached for it, and soon as pos¬ 
sible dropped behind to feast my eyes on its 
bright plumage and admire its fine proportions. 
We got three birds in all, without a miss. These 
I carried and never bore pleasanter burden. 
Not a move of man or dog escaped my watch¬ 
ful eye, and to this day I remember what I then 
learned. 
But one suggestion was given me by the man. 
The second bird turned sharply over his right 
shoulder and he swung squarely into position 
before shooting, getting his body properly lined 
out. I remarked on it and he* said: “You al¬ 
ways want to get straightened out in wing shoot¬ 
ing, even if you have to give the bird a little 
more time. ' You can’t shoot in a kink.” 
On the return trip I laid siege to that un¬ 
lovely gentleman and sought to ingratiate my¬ 
self. As an individual he neither interested nor 
attracted me; as the master of Ponto, he did 
both; in fact, when the big dog slipped up and 
laid his head in my hand as we walked along, I 
loved the man who was the arbiter of our friend¬ 
ship, and sought his esteem as—with one single 
exception—I have that of no other individual. 
What a glorious, glorious sunset marked the 
close of that day and shone on the face of the 
happiest boy in all that region round about. I 
had permission to feed and hunt Ponto, and the 
promise of a little single barrel muzzleloader 
shotgun, the property of a good old man whose 
hunting days were over. Ungrateful creatures 
that we are, our fullest seasons find us yet un¬ 
satisfied, longing for this or that thing more; but 
on that evening my cup of happiness was full. I 
desired nothing more; I envied no earthly being, 
prince or potentate. 
The man who perpetrated the fallacy that there 
is more happiness in pursuit than possession was 
never a boy sportsman, with a gun to his entire 
liking, and a dog to love and be loved by. He 
was surely a misanthrope, pure and simple, go¬ 
ing through life faint-hearted, never getting any 
nearer happiness than to touch the hem of her 
garment with listless hand. 
For Ponto and me life was one grand, sweet 
song from that time until the deep snows 
of winter shut us in. Every hour we could so 
devote we were together in the field. I then 
learned to wholly understand and sympathize 
with the little darkey, who—being asked his age 
—replied : “Seven, by the book, but by the fun 
I’s had, mos’ a hutid’ed.” 
After a hearty breakfast for both, we were 
off for the first hunt next morning. Ponto’s 
master told me that the dog would hunt better 
if fed very little before going afield. Perhaps 
he would; I never tried to hunt him hungry. 
He hunted well enough for me, fed as much as 
he could hold, and I always saw that he got it. 
My permission was to feed him and hunt him. 
1 he former I did, but the latter was reversed. 
He hunted me. Ponto had seen more game killed 
in one day than I had ever seen. Had heard 
more shots fired in one short hunt than I had 
ever fired. He was a veteran and I a tyro. He 
knew all about the game and was willing to help 
me learn; was willing to teach me, which he did. 
Not arbitrarily nor with ‘ an air of superiority, 
but tactfully, gently and firmly he led me aright. 
At the edge of the plain I halted to load up. 
The little gun was as clean as I could make it— 
inside and out—and, to one whose only arm had 
been an old rusty musket, a real triumph of the 
gunmaker’s art. 
Ponto seated himself at my side and watched 
with absorbed interest, while I carefully drew 
the cork from the three-ounce bottle of powder 
and poured into my palm a mound the size of 
a silver quarter at the base. Then when I 
wadded up a bit of paper and pushed it down 
on the powder, with the little brass-tipped ram¬ 
rod, we listened to the sweet music it made on 
its journey down, until finally with a final tump, 
tump, tump, the rod bounded out. He showed 
plainly the pride he felt in my skill when I 
caught the rod in air, thrust it under my left 
arm ’and proceeded to pour out the charge of 
shot and rattle it down upon the home-driven 
wad, followed by another sweet singing bit of 
paper pushed firmly into place. 
When I replaced the ramrod and drew out the 
box of caps, Ponto stood up and watched with 
breathless interest the drawing back of the ham¬ 
mer, cocking up one ear and turning his head 
to listen to the musical click of the half-drawn 
hammer. Of course it was an old story to him, 
but he was such a perfect gentleman that what 
he saw interested and delighted me, was—for the 
time being—the whole thing to him. 
Seeing the gun safely in the hollow of my 
arm, the old fellow started off in a swinging 
gallop to begin the hunt. He was more in¬ 
terested from the start than he had seemed to 
be at any time the day before, when hunting for 
his master, but he was careful to range less and 
watch the gun more closely. 
I had never killed a bird on the wing and had 
lived where game was so scarce that a meadow¬ 
lark seemed big game to me. I hoped to be 
able to bring down one of them, as they were 
plentiful and seemed to fly slowly. 
Ponto had evidently been taught to avoid 
them, and it was not until two or three had 
flushed that he seemed to notice my interest in 
them. I had drawn on one, but had not fired, 
thinking the distance too great and also not feel¬ 
ing that I had managed to cover it, when he 
looked around and discovered me pointing the 
gun at the lark. He immediately froze and 
waited for the report, but when I lowered the 
gun without firing, he started off again, but go¬ 
ing more carefully, and in a few moments there¬ 
after came down on a staunch point. 
Trembling with excitement, I cocked my gun 
and crept up beside him, and a lark flushed. Be¬ 
fore the second wing beat, I fired wildly, and 
then, the more excited of the two, watched it fly 
safely out of sight. 
Seeing the bird safely on its way, Ponto 
walked back and sat down to watch me reload. 
This pleasant duty performed, he went to work 
again and soon had another lark located. This 
time I did better—a little better—for the bird 
was well up before I fired, but the result was 
the same, as it was also on the next a few 
moments later. I concluded that larks must be 
hard shooting and wished we could find some 
prairie chickens, as I had seen just how they 
were brought to bag. 
Before becoming further discouraged, a lark 
flew and lighted on a tall weed within gunshot. 
Ponto saw it and turned to look at me. Seeing 
me preparing to shoot, he crouched and lay 
motionless while I tried to get aim on the bird, 
shaking enough to loosen the shot, so great was 
my excitement. It was surely a case of shooting 
with the “double wabbles,” but I scored and we 
were a very proud pair when Ponto brought in 
the first game killed. There is no doubt in my 
mind but what the old fellow knew it was my 
first lark, and that I had potted it, but he was 
just as cocky over it as I was, the bully old 
sport. 
I persevered, but the best I had done at lunch 
time was to knock a tuft of feathers out of a 
slow-flying upland plover crossing my bows. I 
thought it must surely fall and ran nearly half 
a mile after it, but the last sight I had it seemed 
flying as strong as ever. 
We discussed the events of the forenoon while 
resting and eating lunch, and I assured Ponto 
that I really found it harder than expected, but 
if he would be patient, felt sure I would do 
better later on. He expressed sympathy and 
assured me of his entire confidence, and with 
renewed courage we started off for the after¬ 
noon round. 
I wanted a chance at a prairie chicken, and 
that is what I got. The first point proved to be 
grouse. I supposed it was another lark and ap¬ 
proached with nerves under good control, ready 
to make good my promises and merit Ponto’s 
confidence. 
Crash! boom! whir-r-r! Volcano, earthquake 
and cyclone. Chickens—to the right, to the left 
—everywhere. One thousand, at least, I would 
have said then; a dozen now. They boiled out 
of the weeds and grass with a roar that was 
deafening. They were so thick it was like shoot¬ 
ing at a solid wall of birds. I fired at the very 
beginning of the eruption and then stood shak¬ 
ing like an aspen leaf while it quickly climaxed 
and then subsided. 
My first thought on coming to was, “How 
many did 1 kill?” An awful lot, I felt sure. 
Could not help doing so, they were so thick. 
No more hunting that day; just gather up my 
bag of birds and get home at once. No use kill¬ 
ing more than I could carry. 
The big dog at my feet had not moved. I 
spoke to him and he turned his head—slowly 
and warily—as one using great caution. Much 
white shone in his eyes, and just beyond the 
point of his nose was a great ragged hole in 
the ground. Glancing down at my gun—held 
rigid—I saw that the muzzle pointed true to the 
hole in the ground and realized that the charge 
of shot must have passed within a fraction of 
an inch of the dog’s head, the gun having been 
fired without being put to shoulder at all. 
