A Day’* Partridge Shooting. 
Fond Du Lac, Wis., April 7 .— Editor Forest 
and Stream: I have carefully read that delight¬ 
ful story, “My Friend the Partridge” by Mr. S. 
T. Hammond, and it seemed so real and true 
that oftimes I was reminded of my own ex¬ 
periences, one of which may be of interest to 
the readers of your valuable journal. 
One beautiful day in early September, about 
seventeen or eighteen years ago, a friend and 
I went shooting over the mountains which lie 
just south of the city of Elmira, New York. 
Friend A 1 was not much of a shot at that time, 
neither was he in any way learned in woodcraft, 
but a good companion and willing pupil. If my 
memory serves me right that was to be his first 
tramp behind a bird dog. I had heard him re¬ 
mark that he would like to go along some time 
just to “see how the thing was done,” and al¬ 
though I never took kindly to greenhorns with 
guns—who as a rule are careless—we finally 
fixed on the day, and sunup found us at the 
mountain base, cleared for action and in high 
spirits. The red Irish “Fly” and I had only 
been acquainted a few months, and although we 
knew each other pretty well in the ; back yard 
she was a continual surprise to me in the brush. 
She was so excitable and a high voltage current 
ran in her veins. She was willing to do right, and 
pleased also if she could only hold herself down 
to earth. 
Well, the initiation began before we were two 
minutes in the brush by a fine bunch of young 
birds flushing wild and scattering up the steep 
side, with Fly bringing up the rear in true hik¬ 
ing order. A small switch was promptly cut and 
handed to her with moderation. We climbed on 
up through the brush and I succeeded in bagging 
a fine brace of young partridge, A 1 not having 
a chance to shoot. 
About half way to the summit was a glorious 
spring that I had often visited and we stopped 
there to rest and drink of the ice cold water 
that gushed from the rock. This was a favorite 
noon time resting place for me, and also a 
famous resort for hundreds of warblers which 
came and went drinking and bathing with joy¬ 
ous notes at this, the only watering place within 
a mile or more. 
A 1 was impatient to move on, so we resumed 
our tramp. When only a little way from the 
spring A 1 said, “Look at the dog; she acts 
funny.” I could not see her, but in an instant 
heard her make a short rush and then all was 
still. I had expected to see a brown bundle 
climbing skyward, but as nothing appeared we 
moved up toward the bitch and found her hold¬ 
ing a partridge under her paws. 
“By the great horned spoon,” said Al, “if that 
don’t take the cake. My, but she’s a great dog.” 
Of course I looked wise and never let on but 
that for “great dogs” to catch partridges was 
all in regular order. 
Al’s spirits improved when he had the bird 
in his coat, and we fell into line and marched 
on again. We were out of breath and perspir¬ 
ing freely when we finally reached the mountain 
top. Quite a long time was spent here resting 
and gazing at the magnificent view spread out 
before us. 
Al finally reminded me of the principal object 
of this trip, so we resumed the tramp. Now, 
the top of this peak was flat, and about four or 
five acres in extent, thickly covered with blue¬ 
berry bushes, scrub hickory thickets and an oc¬ 
casional dwarfed hickory tree. The finest look¬ 
ing cover for partridge thdt one could wish to 
see, but in all my journeys through here I had 
"only found one small covey. 
Fly soon showed game and began to lose her 
head, when I heard a partridge getting up off 
to one side. I turned quickly and fired at the 
sound through a dense thicket and a moment 
after heard the familiar sound of a wing-tipped 
bird trying to fly. I gave the red dog her orders 
and she started in the right direction and soon 
was out of sight and hearing. In a few minutes 
she returned, but had no bird and looked up at 
me with such a funny expression as much as to 
say, “It’s no use, I can’t get it.” She lay down 
and all my coaxing was in vain, for she would 
not hunt at all. I had always hated to lose a 
wounded bird, so Al and I began a systematic 
search for this one, making circles of increasing 
diameters about the place, but without avail. 
We finally sat down on a log to rest, about a 
hundred yards from where the bird fell, and 
there discussed the uncertainties of the chaSe and 
wondered where the wounded bird could be. 
We sat there some little time eating our lunch 
and smoking, when all of a sudden a happy 
thought seemed to strike my partner. Said he: 
“My old grandmother once told me of a way 
to find things when they got lost, and I am 
going to try it on that partridge,” and he pro 
ceeded in work the scheme which was as follows: 
He first spat in the palm of his left hand and 
then saying, “Spit, spat, spo, which way did 
that bird go,” he struck the spittle a smart blow 
with the first and second fingers of his right 
hand. Most of the moisture flew off to one side 
into a good sized brush heap. “Now what?” said 
I. “Well,” said the wizard, “I am going to look 
in that brush pile for the bird.” Well, I made 
fun of him in earnest, but it didn’t seem to 
shame him one bit. He went for the brush pile 
and ripped it up the back and down the front 
for all he was worth. Suddenly a yell went up 
that would have made an Apache blush, and 
stooping down 'Al pulled out the wounded par¬ 
tridge, which proved to be a very large old cock 
bird which weighed just twenty-six ounces. 
Well, Al was just about crazy with joy, while 
I—well, I had very little to say, but I made a 
mental note right there never again to doubt 
the sayings of grandma. That bird made four, 
and as Al put it in his coat he remarked that 
“hunting pattridge was great medicine.” 
We then went on down the south side of the 
mountain into a beautiful cool ravine where a 
little brook flowed along, and it looked as though 
a bird might jump any minute. Al turned up 
the creek bottom, and I skirted along near the 
top of the bank. Suddenly bang went Al’s gun, 
and he called excitedly for me to come to him. 
Fly and I went over to see what had happened. 
“See that big basswood out there in the open?” 
“Yes,” said I. “See that big limb sticking out 
to the left?” “Sure,” said I. “Well,. I shot at 
a partridge just as she flew under that limb and 
I didn’t see her go any further, nor did I see 
her fall, but I had such a good sight on her that 
I think she’s hit.” 
That reminded me of grandma again and with 
that good old feeling of belief I gave Fly her 
order to retrieve. She forged ahead a way be¬ 
yond the basswood, picked up a fine partridge 
and handed it over to Al. I can hear his war 
whoop yet, and I let him whoop, for remember 
that was his first shot at a bird on the wing. 
We returned to the city at nightfall with six 
birds, Al being in the best of spirits. He has 
hunted ever since, has owned some fine dogs and 
guns, and I have been told that it takes a pretty 
good man to “wipe his eye.” 
C. F. Larzeleve. 
More About Guns. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
“Uncle Billy” pleased me recently in his talk 
about guns. He certainly knows things about 
16-bores which I did not till he told me. I have 
used a half dozen 16-bore guns, but they were 
all light, not weighing more than six pounds. 
The loads I used in them were not heavier than 
2 Yi, drams of strong black powder and x ounce 
of shot. Some of them would kick like a mule 
with this load, though they did pretty good work. 
Some of my customers grumbled a good deal 
about the kick, while others did not care about 
it. I cannot say that I ever enjoyed shooting 
a hard kicker myself, especially when both bar¬ 
rels went off when only one trigger was pulled. 
The 7-pound 12-bore,, which I have been shoot¬ 
ing for the last ten years, never has played such 
a trick with me, as each firing pin has a separate 
lock, so that a jar cannot fire the gun. We have 
lots of good shooting guns in this country, but 
few of them have two safeties, and consequently 
they are liable to jar off when the sears have be¬ 
come worn. I have found that when tramping 
around several hours with a io-pound gun (after 
using a 7-pounder) much of the pleasure is 
diminished. 
I may say, too, it is much the same when 
using a kicker. Were I hunting bears I would 
not select a 16, 12 or 10 bore, but a 4 or 6. As 
a rule, of course, all things being equal, except 
size, the larger the gun the heavier the load the 
gun will carry, and the heavier the load the 
greater the execution. Forty years ago, here¬ 
abouts, almost every shooter used io-bore guns 
and No. 2 shot for ducks, while now every new 
gun is a 12-bore, 7 or 7^4 pounds, 28-inch barrel. 
No. 4 is about the coarsest shot used up to 5 
and 6. I' would like to hear from “Uncle Billy” 
again and all others interested in the shotgun. 
Besides Forest and Stream I have five other 
sporting magazines and the gun column is the 
most interesting of all. Uncle Dan. 
