Vol. LXXXVII AUGUST, 1918 No. 8 
D O you remember, Little Pal, when 
I returned from the border, after 
just missing the hunting season, that 
I promised you in one of our confidential 
little talks, I should never, never, be sepa¬ 
rated from you another season? Yes, you 
remember it! So do I. I’ve broken faith 
with you—something you never did to me, 
but I’m sure you will forgive me—you al¬ 
ways did, even when I was obliged to whip 
you occasionally while you were learning 
your work. You would always look at me 
and say, “I deserved it,” and sometimes 
1 would even question its right myself. So 
now when I say that we’ve just got to lick 
:he Kaiser and your master must do his 
ait, you will forgive in the same spirit you 
ilways did. You know, don’t you, that 
ny happiest days have been spent with you 
ind my gun, tramping the woods. And 
ou know that even when game was scarce 
.nd we returned empty handed we both 
greed we had spent a wonderful day. 
Just think—you are now n years old and 
ye have hunted together every autumn ex- 
ept the last, since you were ii months old. 
A SOLDIER’S 
LETTER 
TO HIS DOG 
And in the summer when we couldn’t hunt 
we would go walking without the gun. 
Didn’t we have a wonderful time that 
first year in the woods? You were allowed 
to run and chase and do anything you 
wished, with never any punishment, for 
the idea was to make you enthusiastic, to 
love your work and from appearances that 
preliminary instruction was successful. 
Do you remember the first partridge I 
ever shot over one of your points? It 
was on Huttles Hill in South Acton, just 
on the edge of the oak grove, and the bird 
dropped in the juniper bushes in the pas¬ 
ture. And weren’t you the proud dog when 
you retrieved that bird and held it for me 
to take from your mouth still fluttering! 
And you never harmed a feather, for you 
had remembered 3 r our training with the 
pigeon. It was then that you realized for 
the first time that occasionally when I shot 
well enough you would be repaid for your 
efforts. And right now, Betsey, I’ll admit 
that many times I felt ashamed of myself 
for missing a shot after you had worked 
so hard to locate the bird for me. I was 
afraid you would get discouraged and say 
to yourself: “What’s the use?” But you 
never did and you would start out again to 
find a bird with even more enthusiasm. 
It wasn’t until the following season that 
j r ou were obliged to settle down to work 
in a businesslike manner, to stop your 
romping and chasing and work close to me 
within sight or hearing. It came pretty 
hard at first, didn’t it, and you just couldn’t 
remember to keep in close for the first 
couple of days each year. 
And if you were proud when you re¬ 
trieved that first partridge you were no 
more so than your master when you re¬ 
trieved the woodcock across the stream at 
Ayer. How you surprised me that day! 
For, honestly, Betsey, I never had the least 
idea you could swim across to get that bird. 
Do you remember the good times we had 
in Cooleyville and at Ayer? We’ll never 
forget them, will we? And we don’t want 
to, for perhaps we’ve hunted together for 
the last time. You see, you are not as 
young as you were once, and as for me, 
there is some chance that an accident might 
happen and it may be that before another 
hunting season rolls around either or both 
of us will be in the Indians’ “Happy Hunt¬ 
ing Ground.” But let’s agree that whoever 
gets there first will wait for the other be¬ 
fore making their first trip. And if luck 
is with us both and we get together again 
after whipping the Kaiser we can go out 
again together in the woods. 
\\ ell, Betsey, I could write for a long 
while recalling our good times together, 
but you know them and think of them just 
as often as I, many times each day. 
You will probably have your vacation as 
usual, only you’ll be with Ben or Mr. Nev- 
ens, I know you’ll do your level best, that’s 
a habit of yours. Take care of yourself 
and when you come home at night, cold 
and wet, just curl up behind the stove, go 
to sleep and dream of the good times we’ve 
had together in years past. Look out for 
that “rheumatiz” in your left leg, for if 
luck is with us both we may still 1 ’have an¬ 
other hunt and I want a well and strong 
dog to go with me. 
So think of me only half as much as I 
do of you, is the wish of 
intents Copyright, 1918 by Forest and Stream Publishing Co. 
