Partridge Shooting in Michigan. 
“My Friend the Partridge.” How aptly has 
Hammond put it! Had he written volumes he 
could not have expressed better the peculiar re¬ 
gard felt for this bird by many men. My 
experience with them is very limited as to the 
number of birds killed, but I have hunted them 
in several States and can truthfully say every 
bird secured was fairly earned by hard work. 
There is no upland bird I would rather kill 
and there is no bird upon which I perform 
worse than the partridge. Almost every time 
one is flushed near me my heart goes into my 
mouth and my blood tingles at his thundrous 
roar. As a rule, two hasty shots, the bird goes 
on and I am left abusing myself for my lack 
of control and stupidity. 
I have shot thousands of pigeons at the traps, 
sometimes for substantial stakes, but never have 
I felt the same fear of missing in a pigeon 
match as I do when a partridge is flushed. This 
is what causes one to miss; our anxiety and 
an intense desire to kill that particular bird. 
But (and spell it with a capital “B”) when I 
am lucky, or the bird unlucky, on those rare 
occasions when one is conscious as the trigger 
is pressed that brain, ’eye and finger have 
worked together, and the puff of fine feathers 
floating in the wind tells of a successful shot 
even before the welcome thud of the bird strik¬ 
ing the ground greets one’s ear, then bad shots 
are forgotten. 
How carefully you pick up the beauty with 
his barred tail; turn him over to see where 
the shot struck; rearrange his rumpled plum¬ 
age ; deposit him tenderly in your coat pocket. 
He is worth gloating over. Such a shot de¬ 
serves a few moments of reflection. 
I have recently returned from a few days 
spent on the Au Sable River in Michigan, one 
time famous for its partridge shooting. Market 
hunters have told me—and their stories are en¬ 
titled to belief—that they have killed as high 
as forty birds in one day. The natural result 
is that the sportsman of to-day is lucky to get 
one-tenth that number. 
My companion was Mac, an excellent shot. 
Small, wiry and untiring, he constantly out¬ 
walked me. The first day was lost through the 
non-arrival of my trunk containing all my shoot¬ 
ing equipment. We had planned leaving Au 
Sable at 7:30 A. m. on the A. S. & N. W., a 
narrow gauge road which follows the valley of 
the river, but as I could not shoot without a 
gun, we had perforce to wait for the trunk. 
The proprietor of the hotel came to my rescue 
and fitted me out with some shooting clothes 
and an automatic gun. He also supplied a pair 
of shoes which fitted very ill and promptly 
’ raised a blister on each heel. I had never used 
an automatic gun and was a bit doubtful of 
my ability to manipulate it. However, I got it 
1 loaded and we started hunting along the river 
bottoms where some woodcock had been seen. 
It was not long - before a woodcock flushed 
and alighted near me. Grasping my heavy ar¬ 
tillery eight-pound full choke I went for that 
bird with grave doubt as to my ability to se¬ 
cure him. Fortunately the shot was not hard 
and 1 scored, which increased my respect for 
the automatic. 
Then followed a long hunt without securing 
anything. The brush was thick and difficult to 
work and it seemed ages before my ear was 
delighted by the whistle of a woodcock. He 
flushed to the right and swung over in front 
of me, an easy shot for my own six-and-a-half- 
pound cylinder gun, but I missed him, the gun’s 
fault of course, and Mac took an ineffectual 
shot as he darted through the treetops. We 
marked him down, however, and when he rose 
again Mac dropped him in his usual manner. 
We hunted all afternoon without securing any¬ 
thing more, except one woodcock which flushed 
before me. Warned by my previous failure, I 
took plenty of time and killed him with rather 
a long shot clear to the top of the trees. 
We flushed several partridges, but could do 
nothing with them, firing a few shots almost at 
random. The trees were in full foliage, mak¬ 
ing it difficult to see a bird. My English setter 
bitch was having her first experience on par¬ 
tridge, and like all dogs broken on quail wanted 
to get too near them. She improved later, but 
at this time the outlook was rather dubious. 
This ended our first day’s hunt with a bag of 
three woodcock. 
My trunk arrived that afternoon and we left 
Au Sable the next morning at 3 a. m. on the 
logging train, the only train of the day, and 
reached our destination just as day was break¬ 
ing. Leaving our baggage in the office, a half- 
burned box car, we walked to the house, pick¬ 
ing up a bird en route in rather curious fashion. 
The ground was quite open, just such a place 
as one would look for quail near a small thicket. 
The dogs made game. Mac’s warning to be 
ready had scarcely been uttered when a par¬ 
tridge flushed within good range. For an in¬ 
stant, owing to the defective light, I could not 
tell which way the bird was going, but he came 
straight at me so that Mac could not shoot. 
I let him pass a short distance, then turned him 
over with the first barrel, but gave him the 
second as he fell to make sure. “Unnecessary,” 
said Mac. “He was dead with the first barrel.” 
“Yes,” I replied, “but you don’t often get a 
shot right out in the open, and when you do 
you don’t want to take any chances.” 
We arrived at the house before the occupants 
were awake, but upon hearing that we wanted 
accommodations for a few days they agreed to 
take us in. After breakfast we were so tired 
from being awake two successive nights’ travel¬ 
ing that we decided to rest until noon. This 
we did, slumbering peacefully. 
That afternoon we found a number of birds, 
but the shooting was difficult and we did not 
do very much. Shortly after leaving the house 
we found four or five birds, but they were 
flushed by my bitch and promptly betook them¬ 
selves to an impenetrable swamp. We tried to 
follow, but in vain. At last Vic pointed in an 
open place with very little cover. It looked 
most unlikely that a partridge could be there, 
so I did not have much faith in her point. 
When I got to her the bird flushed about fifteen 
yards to her left, evidently having run. The 
shot was not difficult and at the crack of the 
gun the feathers flew, but the bird kept on with 
that labored flight which tells of a hard hit bird. 
I did not fire the second barrel, but stood like 
a fool watching the bird disappear in the ad¬ 
jacent swamp and I never saw him again. We 
still continued to hunt the swamps and the 
“popple” thickets, but were not able to kill the 
birds when found. 
Mac flushed a bird in a place too thick for 
him to shoot. “Look out right over your head,” 
he called to me. I turned too late. The bird 
was within ten feet of me when I saw him. 
Turning frantically back again I fired a hasty 
shot which never harmed a feather. Fortu¬ 
nately the bird did not fly far and when we 
followed I saw him under an evergreen tree. 
Whether my code of shooting ethics would have 
been equal to the strain I know not, but he 
saved any question by promptly taking wing. 
This time I was more fortunate and a quick 
shot secured him. 
Curiously enough the next bird I saw on the 
ground, too. I was standing quietly waiting for 
the dog when I heard a rustle in the brush 
near by. Looking carefully I soon saw him 
making his way daintily through the thicket. 
He saw me just as soon as I saw him and he 
waited not a second, but he was not in time 
and I caught him before he had time to play 
any trick. 
Next morning we hunted a long time before 
we met with any success. By keeping to the 
outside of the coverts and hunting the edges 
I at last killed a bird which gave me a nice 
shot. On the next rise Mac made a good shnj 
knocking down a partridge which we unfo’ 
nately lost. To make matters worse I 
same thing on a bird which flushed in* 
cover to my left and passed in front of, 
was not a difficult shot, but I missed 
my first barrel and knocked him dowij 
second. We were unable to gather 
my dog- not being a reliable retries 
these birds was found by me the 
which one I could not say. I 
ever, that it was mine. 
Still keeping to the open a 
at my feet. I was a bit 
pected rise and only cripple^j 
shot. The second was bet^ 
bird was retrieved with li^ 
Then followed a long 
long time the only thing^ 
swamp rabbit which I 
meat was scarce. Ms 
bird flushed by the dl 
into a tree, twittering! 
about to alight Ma</ 
my charge that he vJ 
Then we had so;! 
stanchly along an ole 
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