November, 1917 
FOREST AND STREAM 
527 
Woodpeckers—were rolling their long 
drawn out love notes, many Robins were 
busily at work in the Palmettos devouring 
the abundant crop of berries, while a 
Phoebe chipped plaintively from a bush 
but a few feet distant. 
I had been keeping an exceedingly close 
watch all around my quarter of the view, 
the big tree-trunk cutting off all towards 
the Branch from upstream way, and 
we had concluded we might as well be 
moving soon when I glanced well around 
back of me and about ioo yards off and 
headed directly our way came a fine big 
bird. I presume he saw me as soon as or 
before I saw him as I was entirely in the 
open from his viewpoint. 
He was a grand old gobbler; I could 
see his long, stiff, bristly “beard” pendant 
on his breast swaying as he ran; a fiery 
red head and throat fairly gleamed in the 
dull woods light. He veered as I caught 
sight of him, doubtless having seen me 
move, and he started at a good gait quar¬ 
tering us. I whispered to Tom as the old 
fellow went along and he said, “Shoot, 
shoot him,” and I let drive at about 80 
yards as nearly as we could step it after¬ 
wards. The old fellow never wavered, 
and running a few steps farther, he arose 
from the ground among some thicker un¬ 
derbrush out of shot and almost out of 
sight amongst the lower younger growth 
of smaller timber, and then on up into the 
tops of the larger trees and away off. The 
last we saw of him his wings were set as 
if possibly thinking of taking to a perch 
in one of the big pines down the Branch 
or getting out of the country. 
I T seemed to me he had some difficulty 
in getting up off the ground and was 
rather slow in flight and I wondered 
a good deal if I had hit him pretty hard 
in the body, but I made no claim of a hit, 
knowing full well that Tom would chaff 
me—as he did anyhow for the miss—and 
then the bird was gone and not even a 
feather to prove my marksmanship. 
I had felt pretty sure of my aim' when 
I touched the trigger, but the light was 
dim under the heavy timber on a cloudy 
day and then sixty years or so does make 
a difference !—perhaps—hence I kept quiet 
and we followed along in the wake of Mr. 
Gobbler, treading softly and hunting each 
big pine and thick magnolia hoping for 
another shot. Up and down the Branch 
we searched, but finally had to give it up 
as a bad job. Then finding some young 
pigs of Tom’s we followed them up for 
an hour or more, feeding them some corn 
he always carries on such occasions to 
make these wild foragers more gentle for 
the final round-up. I made occasional side 
trips for further search after that big 
turkey, for somehow I could not quite be¬ 
lieve that he got off whole and sound. 
The growing dusk seemed to get darker 
and we feared a heavy shower, so we has¬ 
tened to get clear of the timber before it 
was fully dark. We were now considerably 
down the Branch from where I had shot 
at the bird, below where we had last 
seen him and were having some trouble to 
cross the muddy bottom approaching the 
stream when right out across the bog and 
stream, on a higher knoll, that old gobbler 
arose and attempted tq take wing. 
Tom was leading but had his gun up on 
his shoulder. I was a few yards behind 
him and just about to cross a very treach¬ 
erous looking mud hole on the curving 
root of a Bay tree. I could never quite 
decide whether I slipped off the root or 
never touched it, but I shot as the bird 
went out of sight among some bushes and 
cedar brush and then found myself knee 
deep in mire from which I had trouble 
enough to escape. Tom meanwhile had 
splashed through the creek and before I 
could cross had the bird on high and was 
coming back with the prize. 
I had got that first crack into him well 
up under the wing and while not quite 
done for he could scarcely have survived, 
and the wildcats would have found good 
pickings before morning had we not found 
and followed Tom’s bunch of little pigs. 
THE STORY OF CURLY, THE “PATRIDGE” DOG 
A TALE OF HENRY’S INTELLIGENT DOG, WHOSE UNUSUAL METHOD OF 
HYPNOTIZING THE BIRDS GIVES TWO NOVICES AN ENLIGHTENING DAY 
By JACK EDWARDS 
W HEN I hear a person mention the 
term “bird dog,” sometimes I pic¬ 
ture to myself a trim-looking 
pointer or a shaggy-coated setter; but more 
often I visualize a large woolly canine 
quadruped named Curly. 
No doubt the reason for this is that the 
pointer and setter, which are generally 
considered the natural bird dogs, are the 
game finders with which I am the more 
familiar; while Curly, and my day’s ex¬ 
perience in shooting over him, were unique 
to me. Exceptions to any rule usually 
stand out above those things holding true 
to formula, so this is the reason I am re¬ 
minded of this dog more often than of any 
other upon hearing the phrase “bird dog.” 
A few years ago I gained my first knowl¬ 
edge of one phase of partridge hunting, 
and coincidentally made the acquaintance 
of Curly, a partridge specialist. To be 
sure, Curly wouldn’t have had much luck 
with quail or chickens or some of the other 
birds that the natural dog is employed to 
find; but when it came to hypnotizing par¬ 
tridges, that big curly dog resembling both 
shepherd and collie was in his element. 
It was in the evening of a day during 
the second week of our outing in the vi¬ 
cinity of Pine River, Minnesota, that a 
resident of the district, accompanied by his 
dog, paid us a visit. Our camp at that time 
was located on the west shore of Lake 
Lizzie. It was about the middle of Octo¬ 
ber. The big flight of ducks hadn’t started 
down yet, and the bass and pike in the ad¬ 
jacent lakes weren’t particularly inclined to 
attack our lures. Two members of our 
party of four had made plans to fish Lake 
Lizzie the following day; and Nifty and I 
had been debating the advisability of squan¬ 
dering another day in the vain endeavor of 
jumping blue-bills in the nearby rice-beds, 
or of working the waters of Lake Horse¬ 
shoe in the equally futile attempt at killing 
bass. We had just about decided to re¬ 
ject both propositions, and to remain in 
camp and play several hours of fan-tan, 
when our visitor casually asked us if we 
had ever hunted “patridges/" 
N IFTY and I both admitted that we 
had tried our hands at hunting par¬ 
tridges a few days before. We 
had a very lurid remembrance of the tramp 
through the brush between Lake Lizzie 
and Jail Lake, and of the animated feath¬ 
ered projectiles that are so well versed in 
the science of placing trees between them¬ 
selves and shooters. I have been the active 
owner of a set of shotguns for several 
years, and Nifty has interrupted the prog¬ 
ress of many a game bird and clay target, 
too; but after a day’s pursuit of the par¬ 
tridge, we were ready to admit that the 
little bolts of winged lightning were too 
sharp for us. We had returned to camp 
in the evening of that enlightening day 
with three partridges, two extremely light 
shell vests, and a feeling of defeat. Yes, 
we had hunted partridges. 
However, when our guest—let’s call him 
Henry—explained that his dog was a “pat- 
ridge animal,” and added that he was 
(continued on page 554) 
