The Quail We Did Not Get. 
To him who, urged by the old primordial 
instincts of the chase, seeks the coverts where 
the feathered quarry dwells, perchance there 
comes a day of perfect sport. We all may have 
our off days and our average days, but some 
times there is one particular day that stands 
forth as the “shadow of a great rock in a weary 
land.” 
Jack Frost with hoary elfin fingers has left 
his imprint on the land, and’ garments of crim¬ 
son and brown and gold, mute witnesses of his 
advent, clothe every tree and bush, save one, 
the lordly pine, defying his touch, stands serene. 
Amid such scenes you wander and yours is a 
sordid soul if the dulcet tones of nature’s voice 
fall upon your ears unheard and the beauties 
of God’s world pass by your eyes unseen; for, 
be it known that it is not in the ruthless 
slaughter of innocent game or the gratification 
of a gastronomic taste that the only real and 
lasting pleasure lies. It is in the fun you have, 
the friendships you cement, the health and vigor 
you attain from exercise in the open air, and 
best of all, ’tis the pictures that you treasure 
up and hang on memory’s wall. 
This day everything seems in your favor. 
Hand and eye work in perfect harmony; the 
rise, the quick sure aim, a bird wilts in mid 
air, is added to the bag and only a few feathers 
fluttering lightly on the ground remain to tell 
the story. The dogs do grand work, range well, 
find, point and retrieve in faultless style. Birds 
are plentiful and the coveys do not seek inac¬ 
cessible places after the rise, but scatter nicely 
just where you would want them. The day is 
just right, not too warm or too cold, or too 
windy, and as the hours pass your pockets grow 
heavier and heavier, and your peace of mind 
and confidence in yourself apace with it until 
it appears as if you could not miss them if you 
tried. 
Recollections of other occasions when you 
could not do better than one bird in three or 
four or five shots grow very faint and you think 
you have the science of aim and lead and dis¬ 
tance down to the point of exactness. The smell 
of the earth and the frost-deadened vegetation, 
the rustle of the leaves and the sighing of the 
wind through the pines are as music and incense 
to your soul and in beatific frame of mind you 
pity other poor mortals whose business or in¬ 
clination precludes the enjoyment of such sport. 
Tired and happy, you discuss the events of the 
day with your comrades as you journey home¬ 
ward; a particularly difficult shot you made, an 
especially pretty piece of work by the dogs, or 
the thousand and one things such scenes inspire. 
You even condone your few misses by reflect¬ 
ing that a charge of shot is not a thing of 
absolute certainty, and at that distance the pat¬ 
tern may have opened sufficiently to allow the 
bird’s passing through unscathed. Several of 
those misses were a little far off any way or the 
proximity of a bush or tree may have had 
something to do with it. Sure, it was never be¬ 
cause your aim was at fault. And it is a mighty 
good thing for fur and feathels that you are not 
a market hunter and after them at all times, 
isn’t it? 
For days after you go about with a seraphic 
smile on your countenance and tell your friends 
of it. As you plan your next trip you fully ex¬ 
pect to duplicate the performance and perad- 
venture go it even a bit better. In the classic 
idiom of the South, “right here you drops your 
watermillion.” 
After such a day as the foregoing, followed 
the experience I will now relate. Truly, the 
mutations of human affairs in the hunting field 
approacheth the phantasmagoric. 
On the afternoon of November 12, my friend 
Al. D. strolled in my office and proposed a 
hunt for the next day at Lawtey, thirty-eight 
miles from Jacksonville. I demurred a little at 
first for the sake of appearances and hinted 
vaguely about business, such short notice, etc., 
but he said: “Doc, you know what my precept 
is; when business inteferes with pleasure, let 
business go!” Of course, after such an admir¬ 
able injunction as this, I consented. 
Nine-fifteen found 11s with his three dogs, 
Prince. Bob and Sport, in the Seaboard baggage 
car, pulling out for Lawtey. We arrived at 
ten-thirty in a cold drizzling rain and found no 
one to meet us. We had wired Mr. Rowe, the 
proprietor of the hotel, to expect us. Not a 
soul was at the station but a facetious agent 
and him Al. accosted: “Say, we want to go to 
the hotel.” 
Gazing at him a moment, the agent thought¬ 
fully replied: “Well, I guess I’ll let you go this 
one time, but don’t ever ask me again.” 
He then directed us toward our caravansary 
which was only a few hundred yards away. We 
stumbled away in the darkness and rain bearing 
our paraphernalia of guns, coats, leggins, bag, 
and two hundred shells, but had gone only a 
short distance when we were met by Mr. Rowe 
with a lantern and relieved of a part of our 
burden. After instructing him to call us at 5:30 
for breakfast, we sought our comfortable beds, 
and I was made aware by the clamor emanating 
from the adjoining room that Al. was the first 
one to be lulled by the voices of the night. 
But I did not lie awake long, and soon the 
saw-mill, the steamboat and the calliope re¬ 
ceded into the distance and the next thing I be¬ 
came aware of was a hammering on the door 
and a voice informing us it was time to get up. 
The outlook was forbidding. A cold north¬ 
west wind blew and it was still raining. After 
breakfast we sat around the big open fire-place 
with its blazing pine logs, smoking and getting 
up from time to time to see if there was any 
change in the weather. Sure enough in an hour 
or so the rain ceased, our friend, Mr. Hill, 
drove up in a surrey as pre-arranged, and by 
eight o’clock we had started for the woods 
about Black Creek, six miles away. Mr. Hill 
had along his two pointers. Don and Snow. 
About a mile from Black Creek Bob began to 
get warm and finally froze close to a clump of 
palmettos. Sport, about ten feet behind, backed 
him beautifully and Prince, ranging on the 
other quarter, crawled up within ten yards. It 
was a picture to make the pulses leap. We got 
out our artillery and strode forward, each feel¬ 
ing himself good for a double if he only had a 
fair show. Don, who was roving at random 
about three hundred yards away when the stop 
was made, came running up, went by us. like a 
whirlwind and without halting, sprang, with a 
blithe and joyous bark, right into the midst of 
the palmettos. Up went the covey while we 
were yet twenty yards away, and after them 
went Don, giving tongue with all his might. 
Two birds fell after five shots. No one knew 
to whose guns these two fell, but each of us, I 
fancy, had his private opinion. 
• One quail lighted about a hundred and fifty 
yards away in a pine tree and the rest alighted 
along a branch a hundred yards further on. Don 
centered his attention on the one in the tree, 
where he barked and capered about madly and 
even essayed to climb the tree. We walked 
down there, and as the bird flew, Al. and I each 
sent a charge in his direction, but he got away. 
Mr. Hill indulged in some picturesque language 
at Don. Taken back to the surrey, he was 
promptly chained to the rear axle, there to stay 
and meditate upon the errors of his way. He 
did so want to catch one of those little brown 
birds that sm,elt so good. His actions said as 
plainly as anything could that he would try to 
pull one down for us next time. 
After this painful episode we walked on. 
Prince found one and Bob and Sport cor¬ 
roborated the statement. “Take him if he goes 
to your side, Doc,” said Al.; and we kicked him 
up. On my side he went. Bang! a few feathers; 
bang 1 a clean miss from my gun. and bang! an¬ 
other miss by Al. Meanwhile, off to the right 
of us Snow found one and Mr. Hill put him up 
and missed. Bang! bang! two clean holes per¬ 
forated the atmosphere. Another point and 
three birds got up, a fusillade from the three of 
us and only a few feathers to show for it. 
One or two flew straight in front of us to a 
knoll covered with oak scrub. Here Sport came 
to a stand, and thinking it a single, Al. and Mr. 
Hill went forward to flush it and up sprang the 
biggest covey of the day. about twenty birds. 
Right back over our heads they came like bul¬ 
lets and again some music from the guns and 
nothing more. We looked dazedly and inquir¬ 
ingly at each other. Even our dogs gazed at us 
reproachfully. Back the birds flew to almost 
the identical place the first covey went. In a 
little palmetto plot at edge of the swale, we had 
marked one bird and all four dogs froze on him. 
“Try that gas-pipe of yours at him, Doc.” said 
Al , and wonder of wonders, I killed it with the 
first barrel! 
In the thickest portion of the hammock the 
birds began to get up and we each had several 
shots. Al. 'connected with one and dropped 
another which we could not find; Mr. Hill se¬ 
cured one. Not finding any more and being 
unable to follow into a dense swamp where the 
