Mr. Ponto 
Gentleman and Sportsman 
By LEWIS HOPKINS 
(Continued from page 1010 .) 
A S the season advanced, flocks of rice birds 
often settled down on our hunting grounds, 
and it was a red letter day when we got 
a load of shot judiciously placed in their midst. 
To get within range it was necessary to stalk 
them with great care, either creeping on hands 
and knees through the grass and weeds or else 
finding some swale or low place to steal up on 
the flock from. 
In this matter of stalking Ponto was a 
past grand master. No naked Indian ever lived 
who could make a more stealthy approach than 
he. Stretched at full length gliding over the 
ground he looked like a brown shadow and was 
fully as noiseless. Never in the lead, but often 
at my side, we would sneak up on a flock of 
birds feeding on the ground, and at the slightest 
show of restlessness on the part of the game, 
Ponto would freeze in his tracks, nor would he 
move so much as an eyelash until the flock was 
quiet. When we arrived within gunshot he would 
stop, and if I did not fire at once, roll his brown 
eyes round to see what caused the delay, saying 
as plainly as if spoken aloud in perfect English: 
“There they are; get busy.” 
A few days after we killed the prairie chicken 
a large flock of rice birds settled down on a 
very open spot near where we were hunting. 
At first I saw no way of getting within range 
of them, but after looking over the ground, saw 
that a swale ran near the place. Getting down 
into this we crawled along its dry, grassy bot¬ 
tom until I thought we were about opposite to 
where the birds had lighted. Raising my head 
with caution I was delighted to find that we 
were close on to the flock, and they were undis¬ 
turbed. Bringing the gun to bear upon the thick¬ 
est part of the flock, I fired. Springing to my 
feet I raced for the kill and was almost wild to 
find eleven birds down. Ponto was right with 
me, but did not offer to touch a dead bird, but 
quickly looked after all cripples and brought in 
four more, making the total bag fifteen. By 
hard hunting, and the good luck to catch one 
bird on the ground, we added three larks and 
two plover to our string, making it the best day 
of all so far. 
Our next good bag was made on quail. These 
birds did not range much on the prairie, but 
kept more to the farms. Occasionally a covey 
would come out in the open, and on two or 
three occasions we had flushed them. I was 
beginning to shoot better and had learned to 
know at once the game we were following by 
the old dog’s distinctive approach. We found 
this covey of birds and they flew safely through 
the first load 1 fired at them on the flush, and 
scattered nicely where the cover was thick, but 
not high. 
I had not been much interested in quail so 
far, as they always disconcerted me on the flush 
in covey and flew so fast I could not seem to 
hold on singles. 
My preceptor thought it time I took more in¬ 
terest in this branch of the sport, and when the 
gun was reloaded, started off at once for the 
place where the quail had settled. I lagged a 
little at first, but seeing that he was determined, 
finally followed, intent on doing my best. 
The first was a single. Ranging alongside the 
dog, I got in good position, determined to do 
my shooting with nerves as well under control 
as I could hold them. The flush was straight 
away and the kill as clean and cool as though 
the work of a veteran. We did a bit of rejoic¬ 
ing when it was brought in and reloaded for an¬ 
other. The next was a pair and they were so 
inconsiderate as to separate, flying one to the 
right and one to the left. Trying to cover both 
at once, and then wondering which I had best 
shoot, I hesitated until both were lost in the 
distance. Ponto looked around at me with 
wonder and a little reproach % his eyes, but was 
not inclined to be at all unpleasant over it. In 
a few moments he had another bird located and 
it quickly followed the pair, but not until I had 
done my very best to stop it. 
Then I distinguished myself. Two birds in 
succession. Nice, big, fat brown beauties, one 
right after the other as fast as I could load. 
Old Ponto fairly grinned with delight when he 
brought them in. Then two more in succession 
—missed. Poor, thin, rangy fellows, anyhow, I 
guessed. The next bird went down winged and 
was more Ponto’s bird than mine. He had a 
great race after it and brought it in alive to my 
very great embarrassment, as I knew no way of 
killing a fowl other than wringing its head off, 
and I would not have so mutilated one of my 
beautiful birds for any consideration. I tied it 
up in my handkerchief and carried it home that 
way for the cook to kill. 
Another pair next offered. They got off to¬ 
gether and I concluded to kill them both at one 
shot, but when I got good aim they had sepa¬ 
rated, and I fired through the ten-foot opening 
between them. Two more agile ones sidestepped 
my load, one after another, and then I scored 
again. While bringing in this bird, Ponto came 
on the last member of the covey we found. 
I was utterly at a loss to understand his stop¬ 
ping, and apparently pointing with a bird in his 
mouth. It did-not look as if he could do that and 
play fair, as the children say. I had never be¬ 
fore, nor have I since, save on a few occasions, 
seen this done. At a loss as to what I ought 
to do I finally concluded to approach the dog 
and relieve him of the bird he was retrieving 
and leave him free to point the one he seemed 
to have found. For the only time during our 
long acquaintance he resisted my taking a bird 
from him, and while I was tugging away to pull 
it from him, the one he was pointing flushed 
and got safely away. He immediately released 
the bird, turned deliberately around and sat 
down with his back to me. 
I have never been more severely reprimanded 
nor more pointedly disapproved of than I was 
then and there. “You are several things that a 
gentleman will not condescend to put into plain 
language,” said the disgusted veteran sportsman. 
That not being sufficient to fully and adequately 
express his feelings, when I had reloaded he 
immediately turned away from the quail ground 
and went off to other quests, fairly rubbing it in, 
as it were. 
On that occasion our relations were more 
strained than at any other time during our long 
acquaintance, and on reflection I could not but 
feel that his resentment was just. I was but a 
beginner, but should have had more sense than 
to spoil that fine play of the old dog. 
It was all over by the time we got home and 
we were good friends again. 
My bump of self esteem continued depressed 
for a few days, and then an incident occurred 
which put us again on the same plane. I saw 
the dignified Mr. Ponto as completely demoral¬ 
ized, and as perfect a victim of self disgust as 
I had ever had occasion to be. Thus (verily) 
doth conscience make cowards of us all. 
The day was unusually warm and our wan¬ 
derings had taken us further from home than 
ever before. Our lunch had been sufficient, but 
we were suffering terribly for water. Approach¬ 
ing a farm I concluded to make for the house 
in the distance and beg a drink. Our route took 
us through cultivated fields and unfortunately 
across the family watermelon patch where sev¬ 
eral belated melons still lingered on the vines. 
Quieting a naturally sensitive conscience with 
the argument that the season was over and the 
