THE FRIEND OF MAN 
Little Stories of Bird Dogs in the Field 
By ARCHIBALD RUTLEDGE 
Illustrations from Paintings by Percival Rosseau 
T HE sun was nearly down; we 
were tired; and we were ready 
to call it a day. Through the 
brown cottonfield we went toward the 
old plantation house where we were 
staying for our outing. Somewhere in 
the cotton behind us was Max, our 
English setter. 
As the house was 
now in sight, we 
gave no further 
attention to the 
dog. W e took it 
for granted that 
he would simply 
follow us in. 
An hour later 
we had finished 
dinner and, in the 
afterglow of the 
mild winter’s 
evening, we had 
come out on the 
porch to have ci¬ 
gars and—sarsa¬ 
parilla. Inciden¬ 
tally we called 
Max. He was not 
to be found. It 
then occurred to 
us that he might 
be still in the cot¬ 
tonfield. To it we 
repaired. 
Near its ten-acre center there was 
a thicket of wild plums. Toward this 
I drifted in the twilight. Just as I 
reached it, I saw a glimmering shape 
ahead of me. Then I heard the un¬ 
mistakable sound of the running of 
quail on dry dead leaves. Then I 
watched—though the light was almost 
gone—the kind of a scene that makes 
a man feel like tossing clear over¬ 
board all this business of a dog’s hav¬ 
ing instinct but no reasoning power. 
Max had the birds cornered in the 
thicket. They would not, of course, 
roost there; quail, 
probably from 
those far - off 
times when foxes, 
wildcats, and the 
like were very 
much more com¬ 
mon than they 
are now, avoid 
sleeping in thick¬ 
ets and woods. 
Even the so- 
called “wood- 
birds” will 
emerge toward 
the end of the 
day from any 
dense copse into 
which they have 
gone to roost in 
the comparatively 
open and grassy 
woodland, or in 
the marshes of 
some swampy 
margin. Max 
probably knew 
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