December, 1917 
FOREST AND STREAM 
593 
ern gunner, and each hunter of experience 
has a fund of stories to relate about the 
wisdom of this bird. Ask the old-time 
gunner about his partridge shooting and 
you will call forth from him tales which— 
if you too love the partridge—will be good 
to listen to and to match. Hammond, who 
writes of the bird with an enthusiasm and 
a simplicity that has been equalled by no 
one, abounds in incidents odd and humor¬ 
ous that make good reading. 
Beautiful, graceful, wise, and abundantly 
able to take care of itself the partridge 
has well been called king of our game 
birds. He is scarce, wild and hard to get 
and we may feel sure that the day when 
partridges will be bred like pheasants, to 
be turned out for the gunner to shoot, is 
yet a lbng way off. Let us hope that still 
farther distant may be the day when the 
hills of New \ork and New England, the 
pleasant intervales of Michigan and the 
ridges of Minnesota shall cease to hold dear 
old S. T. Hammond’s Friend the Partridge. 
In response to many requests from both our old and new readers Fnrect onh c tre , m , . 
monds classics, “The One-eyed Grouse of Maple Run” “My Old Doa Trim " « MvF? *3 ™ rly p ls ™ e f republish Mr. Ha 
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SQUIRREL HUNTING WITH ELLY AND CARLO 
By JAY RIPLEY 
<<WAP! Yap! Yap!” The breeze 
ushered into my room the sharp 
staccato of an impatient small dog. 
Hastily jumping from my bed, I peered 
outdoors. The sun had not yet vaulted the 
ramparts of dark green pine. A small, 
one-eyed dog persisted in his noise. A 
slight, weather-beaten, gray-haired, thin- 
visaged old man stood agape at my win¬ 
dow, seemingly unbelieving that a healthy, 
middle-aged man could have the slightest 
desire to sleep after four A. M. 
“Hello 1 Hello!” called the old man. 
Then seeing my face at the window he 
smiled. “Lordy, Mister Jay, I dun thout’ 
yu’ns wuz about to oversleep yourself.” 
The dog, perceiving that- there was no 
further need of his trenchant voice, sub¬ 
sided all at once. But later, after break¬ 
fast as I strode half-awake across the 
porch with a perfunctory appraisal of my 
figure, clothes and general makeup, he sig¬ 
nified his approval by divers rapid sway- 
ings of his abbreviated tail, and anticipa¬ 
tory sniffs at the cold, frosty atmosphere. 
“Pretty good squirrel dog, Mr. ..ah.. 
Honeycutt?” I asked politely, realizing 
with each locality variations in type of 
squirrel dogs were not only permissable 
but really occurred. From a tall hound to 
a miniature nondescript cur was the con¬ 
ventional range of ideals in the dogs. One 
county could see nothing but a hound; step 
across into the neighboring one and the 
smaller dogs were featured irrespective of 
breed or coloration. 
Carlo’s a squirrel dog, I should say!” 
declared the native with pardonable pride. 
“They hain’t nary’ nuther in these hills 
kin totch him!” And in justice to the dog 
and the old man’s claims neither one were 
ever disputed. “They never wuz enny- 
thin, in the hills like him— I’ll sell half 
interest in him for a couple uv dollars.” 
As my stay would no doubt be prolonged 
into weeks the desirability of such a para¬ 
dox was manifest. Two dollars brought me 
the possession of a one-eared, white and 
tan, nearly tailless mite of a dog, called 
Carlo, during my vacation; and I was bur¬ 
dened no further with his care after my 
outing was over. Half ownership in such 
an instance was far more welcome than 
being absolute proprietor. I will admit, 
too, that Carlo shone brilliantly in his 
rugged setting, but in the city he would 
not only have grieved himself to death at 
the loss of his freedom, but his looks would 
have been hopelessly against him. 
“Oh, yes,” I observed, taking down my 
twenty-two caliber rifle from the newly 
contrived rack at the front of the house, 
and sending a dubious glance out into the 
brilliantly fall-painted hills, “Could I get a 
boy to guide me for a day or so?” In that 
wilderness of timber and rock I had little 
faith in my ability to hunt for any length 
of time without losing my way. 
“Hey, Elly! Cum here,” called the old 
man in a high-pitched voice. 
Simultaneously a tall, black haired, bare¬ 
footed girl came running to her father 
from around the house. She must have 
been about fifteen years of age. 
Take Mister Jay out in the flatwoods 
with Carlo—reckon that’s the best place.” 
“Alright!” she answered quickly. Her 
fine brown eyes shone pleasantly. She took 
a small, muzzle-loader rifle from the rack, 
and affixing a powder horn and shot pouch 
around her neck, she whistled shrilly. 
Carlo perked up his sole ear, gave nu¬ 
merous yelps of happiness, and proceeded 
to fling himself in the air in a startling 
continuity of summersaults. I learnt that 
this was his mode of expressing his sur 
preme delight at the prospect of a squirrel 
hunt. And the queerest thing about this 
incongruity of dog, barefooted girl and city 
hunter, was that amidst those settings they 
seemed to fit in just right. 
After the dog had disappeared Elly 
broke forth in chatter, which was principal¬ 
ly about the merits of Carlo and the habits 
of squirrels. She led me through a thicket 
of second growth hickories, then gave vent 
to her full enjoyment of the occasion, as 
Carlo at some distance off, with the keer 
ness of an explosion of nitro powder, 
sounded three yelps. 
Talk to him, Carlo,” she sang out vi¬ 
brantly, Talk to him, Carlo—talk sum big 
to him, Carlo !” ’ 
Carlo sent back three more treed notes. 
Elly dashed ahead, her wealth of long, 
blue-black tresses waving flag-like behind 
her, and her graceful figure showing to ad- 
a antage with every stride. Her feet paid 
no attention to the broken rock scattered 
on all sides. Cum on!” she called with 
averted head in my direction, then to Car- 
lo: “Speak to him, Carlo; jist talk to him, 
Carlo, jist talk sum big to him, Carlo!” 
And again the responsive Carlo sounded 
the treed note, unwavering and positive. 
B reathless, i reached Eiiy. with 
eyes shaded with her slender brown 
hand against the trespass of the rising 
sun, she scanned carefully a big hickory 
among a host of blackoaks. 
“He never lies,” she confided. 
Carlo spoke again. Elly signalled to me 
Her eyes seemed to say: “Stay where 
yu,ns „are> I’ll find him, and turn him for 
yu ns - She walked almost around the 
tree her eyes staring upward all the time. 
I see him!” she announced. “He’s up 
in that top fork. I see his fox-tail.” 
For once my eyes were almost as prompt 
as a native’s. Just that instant I caught 
(continued on page 624) 
