330 
FOREST AND STREAM 
June, 1918 
- The dog went down into the ditch after the bird 
did some work as good as any he had ever 
done in his prime. 
O NE crisp November morning in the 
long ago, just as I had finished break¬ 
fast, a wagon stopped at my gate 
and a cheery “Hello” brought me to 
the roadside, where I found my friend 
Curtis, ready for a day’s quail shoot¬ 
ing. Soon with gun in hand and vest 
filled with shells, I was seated beside 
him and we were away. 
“Where are you going, Bill?”—“Why, I 
think we will go to the Old ‘Hannaway 
House’ ” (one of the very few abandoned 
farms in our county). “Put the horse in 
the old barn, and hunt over the farm, then 
to Captain Taylor’s, then over Bill Crav 
ford’s old orchards, around by Indian Hill, 
in a circle back to our starting point. There 
are several coveys of birds on that route, 
and if we strike them, we ought to have 
some shooting, although birds are pretty 
scarce this year.”—“What dogs 
have you in the back of the 
jaeger?”—“Why, I brought old 
Snip and the white and liver 
pup.”—“Have you named him 
yet?”—“Yes, I call him Dash, 
he is pretty young, only seven 
months old, but he is so big 
and strong and wise that I 
am anxious to try him out this 
season.” 
Soon we were at Hanna- 
way’s and making the horse 
comfortable in the old barn, 
started out over the neglected 
brier grown fields. We had 
gone but a little distance when 
Snip made game, and roading 
a little way through the grass 
and blackberry briers came to 
a staunch point. 
“Bill,’’ I excitedly cried, 
“look at that pup.” There the 
little youngster stood about ten 
paces behind Snip, backing like 
a veteran. It surely was a 
pretty sight, the old dog 
crouched low, the puppy with 
head high, both as rigid as if 
carved from stone. As we 
walked up to the old dog, the 
pup, after looking at his mas¬ 
ter, crawled carefully forward, 
until he stood on point beside 
the other. A step or two 
more, and with a roar the 
covey rose. Bill brought down 
a pair, but I was so interested 
in watching the pup, that I 
missed with my first barrel 
and killed with the second. At 
the report of the guns Snip 
dropped, and the pup also. 
“Dead bird,” said Bill. Up got 
old Snip, and trotted out to 
one of the dead birds. The 
pup looked up at his master, 
then trotted out and picked up 
a bird also, and brought it 
to Bill, just as prettily as Snip. 
Now these were the first quail 
the pup had ever seen shot, 
and his sagacity and coolness 
endeared him to me at once. 
We followed the birds to the 
edge of the near-by woodland; 
here Snip pointed two or three, 
the pup backing each time in splendid 
style, but showing just a little trace of 
excitement. Then as he passed a large 
stump, he whirled quickly around, and 
made as beautiful a point as I ever saw, 
the old dog now backing him. 
“Step up, Neil,” said Bill, “and be sure 
and kill this bird, if you never kill another 
one in your life.” As I walked in along¬ 
side of the pup, he held his point as steady 
as a rock, then up sprang the bird, and 
whirled behind a big chestnut tree. Spring¬ 
ing quickly to one side, I drew carefully 
down on it as it passed a small opening in 
the trees, and at the crack of the gun it 
fell a clean kill. As the pup placed the 
dead quail in my waiting hand, I patted him 
on the head and vowed him to be a wonder. 
Following along the wood’s edge, we 
came to a springy spot overgrown with 
alders, and as the puppy was crossing this, 
v he threw up his head, took a cautious step 
or two, and came to a point. 
“Come here, Bill,” I called, “the pup is 
pointing.” At the sound of my voice, a big 
woodcock took wing, and with a musical 
twitter was away through the alders like 
a shadow. Stooping quickly I swung my 
gun well ahead of his line of flight, and 
at the report, a few feathers drifting back 
proved I had held correctly and in a few 
moments little Dash placed the bird in my 
hand, a magnificent specimen. 
So finding birds from time to time, we 
skirted Captain Taylor’s farm and came 
to the old spring, on the east side of the old 
Crawford Orchard. Here we had our 
lunch and rested, while I made friends 
with Dash. Resting his nose on my knee, 
he gazed long and earnestly in my eyes, 
while I pulled his silky ears and patted his 
head, and there began a friendship that 
lasted through his lifetime. Many, many 
a bird did I shoot over him in after years, 
and I think he loved me next to his master. 
As we passed through the grass grown 
orchard a rabbit sprang from a weed 
bunch in front of Dash, and scuttled away. 
Then I feared for my favorite. A couple 
of convulsive jumps and at Bill’s sharp 
“Steady, Dash,” he stopped short. At the 
crack of Bill’s gun the rabbit turned a 
“flip flop” and Dash quickly brought him 
in, with his head held high, wagging his 
tail, when his Master said “good dog.” 
So we passed the day, we picking up 
some birds from time to time, and late in 
the afternoon reached Indian Hill. Here 
on the crest of this ancient Indian burial 
place (now a private cemetery), we stopped 
to rest and admire the view. Far to the 
westward, at the mouth of the Raritan 
River, lay the twin cities of the Amboys. 
Then along the indented shore line before 
us, lay Keyport, Keansburg, Port Mon¬ 
mouth, Belford, Atlantic Highlands, and 
the dark bulk of the Highlands of Nave- 
sink, while low in the east lay Sandy Hook, 
with the great fortifications on its point. 
Opposite lay Coney Island, the Narrows, 
and the green slopes of Staten Island, while 
in the center like a huge turquoise .in a 
golden setting, lay the ever beautiful Rari¬ 
tan Bay, studded with white sails, and far 
in the east, a great ocean steamer, headed 
for the narrow gateway to the great me¬ 
tropolis, left a trailing plume of smoke be¬ 
hind. Possibly the sun may shine upon a 
fairer picture than this, but where? 
At last we reached the old barn, and our 
day was done. I do not recall how many 
birds we had, but it was a goodly number, 
and we had enjoyed a perfect day. As 
we wended our way homeward, I said, 
“Bill, I envy you Dash, if nothing happens 
to him he will make a wonderful dog. If 
he belonged to me, I would not take a 
hundred dollars for him.” 
Y EARS have passed, and Dash is in his 
prime, a high headed dog, of com¬ 
manding presence and great endur¬ 
ance. My predictions had proved true, for 
experience had made him as near perfec¬ 
tion as a dog could be. Again Curtis 
and I were quail hunting, this time in the 
dense brier thickets and grassy swales west 
of Keansburg. Old Snip had gone to the 
dog’s happy hunting grounds, and a young¬ 
er dog held her place. Dash had been 
roading a bevy through the swamp, and 
had disappeared from view. Loud and 
long Bill blew his whistle, but no Dash ap¬ 
peared. I said, “I believe he is on point 
