Woodcock and Woodland. 
Eight o’clock the morning of Oct. 19, and not 
a cloud in the soft Indian summer sky. A gen¬ 
tle westerly breeze, just strong enough to carry 
scent well, faintly rustled the fading leaves of 
the little oak by the kitchen door, bringing with 
it that indescribable spicy odor of withered 
grasses, of moist dead leaves, of orchards and 
wide fields of browning stubble. A stronger 
puff of air stirring through the branches loosened 
a golden shower from the maples, and then, as 
if satisfied with its work, died away to nothing¬ 
ness in an open space where the white frost of 
the preceding night had already disappeared in 
the warming sunlight. In the nearby woods a 
party of bluejays was hunting acorns, and their 
subdued, conversational chatterings and flute-like 
calls sounded pleasantly in the morning quiet. 
Old Di knew very well what was coming. As 
1 neared the kennel he sat stiffly erect before its 
door, only his quivering muscles and half-sup¬ 
pressed whines telling of the excitement aroused 
by the sight of those grimy canvas trousers 
tucked into the tops of the thorn-scarred boots. 
But when he had bolted his breakfast of dry 
bread and oatmeal, and saw r me pick up the 
twelve, then indeed the cup of joy overflowed. 
No need to question whether he was ready—- 
those frantic yelps and short, twisting dashes 
here and there w^ere answer enough. And so, 
with a substantial lunch stow f ed away in my 
coat, we headed across lots for the first bit of 
cover half a mile away. 
At the edge of a dense growth of chestnut, 
white birch and bayberry that clothed a sunny 
hillside, Di halted for me to catch up, then slip¬ 
ped cautiously into the brush. As I w'alked 
along the path that traversed the thicket I could 
trace the dog's movements by the rustling of the 
dead leaves as he worked out the ground with a 
wisdom born of long experience. Presently 
these sounds ceased in a little patch of chestnut 
sprouts hidden from sight by some stubby cedars. 
“What is it, boy?” Silence. 
“Something doing there, all right,” I thought, 
and made a quiet detour around the cedars. 
There he was in the midst of the sprouts, stif¬ 
fened into one of his characteristic, crouching 
points that spelled woodcock. As I approached, 
the bird sprang from almost under the dog’s 
nose and w'hisked straight up to clear the sap¬ 
lings. How familiar seemed that swift upward 
dash, and w r hat a beautiful mingling of rich 
browns, yellows and buffs there was in the mot¬ 
tled feathers as Di brought him to me. No 
weakly summer bird w'as this, but a full-fledged, 
strong-winged cock, fit subject for any man’s 
attention. 
At the foot of the hill, just on the border of 
a sw-ampy wood, the dog made game again, but 
the bird must have left before we arrived, for 
a careful search was barren of results. Once I 
thought we had him, when Di stiffened beside a 
brushy ditch, but the momentary halt was caused 
only by some fresh chalkings and borings in the 
moist earth. 
A narrow dirt road led through the swamp to 
the railway, and after crossing the tracks we 
came to a long strip of white birch saplings. 
Through the middle of this cover a tiny stream 
made its way, and many a woodcock has met 
his end along that rich margin in the days before 
summer shooting was wisely struck from the 
list of legitimate sports. Autumn birds, how¬ 
ever, are to be sought on the drier ground on 
either side of the brook, so thither we went. 
Working from end to end of the thicket on the 
left side no birds were found, but midway of 
the return trip along the other side the dog 
whirled into a solid point in the middle of a 
little clearing. What a picture. The curling 
yellow leaves carpeting the dry ground, the mel¬ 
low sunlight, the graceful white trunks and in¬ 
terlacing twigs of the birches all about, and in 
the center that "best of all dogs”—tense, motion¬ 
less, his grand head partly turned to catch the 
magic scent. For a moment I hated to spoil the 
scene, so typical was it of the best there is in 
upland sport. But I was not quite prepared for 
what happened when I advanced to flush, for 
two birds instead of one darted upward with 
twittering wings. One of them may be going 
yet, but the other collapsed in a swirl of cut 
twigs and downy feathers that looked mighty 
good to me. 
Lunch time found us beside a trout stream 
that had yielded many a pleasant hour’s sport 
in April days, and when Di had gulped down 
his share of the sandwiches, he curled up in a 
sunny spot while I smoked a lazy pipe. Two 
more birds had been gathered in during the 
morning, making four in all, and as plenty of 
good ground yet remained to be hunted, I was 
more than contented. 
While we rested there arrived an irate farmer, 
evidently somewhat the worse for wear by rea¬ 
son of too close connection with a bottle. “That 
you shootin’ over there on the hill a while ago?” 
he roared. “Well, didn’t you see them signs? 
I ain’t a-goin’ to have no -.” Here his 
language became unprintable. Now there were 
no signs in that particular place, as I very well 
knew, and this fact I communicated to the 
farmer, adding that I was quite willing to de¬ 
part in peace if he objected to a trifle of shoot¬ 
ing. Things looked squally for a while, but the 
man proved to be about two-thirds bluff and 
one-third bad whiskey, so he simply stayed 
around and swore until I left. 
The incident was subsequently mentioned to a 
friend. “What sort of a looking fellow was 
he?” he asked. “Short and heavy with a moth- 
eaten brown mustache?” “Yes, 1 know him, and 
he doesn't own that land any more than you do. 
Every time he gets drunk he goes on the ram¬ 
page, and his specialty is chasing hunters. The 
real owner of the land lives on the other side 
of the valley, and doesn't object to shooting on 
any of his ground.” 
It was quite a long tramp across the fields to 
the next promising cover. On the way Di pointed 
a covey of quail close by a weed-choked fence, 
hut the season for them was not open, and they 
buzzed away in safety, a proceeding that seemed 
to puzzle the dog not a little. 
Finally, about 3 o'clock, a long, grassy ridge 
was reached on the further side of which the 
thickets of alder, maple and chestnut formed 
rare good cover for fall birds. In the first 
thicket the dog pointed, but the bird (rose wild 
and the light load did not touch him. He 
pitched close beside a stump fence where the 
brush was almost impenetrable, and there Di 
pinned him again. I could just see the dog’s 
tail through an opening between the stumps, but 
the cover was so dense that I hesitated to at¬ 
tempt making the flush from where I was. The 
top of the fence promised a vantage point, how¬ 
ever, though it proved a ‘rather shaky place to 
stand. The bird was evidently near the middle 
of a group of small maples overgrown with wild 
grape vines about ten yards away. At the edge 
of the maples the dog crouched a’most on his 
belly, checked in the very act of crawling under 
a fallen trunk. And there was I on the fence, 
unwilling to throw in a stick or shout to start 
the bird for fear of causing Di to break his 
point, and almost equally unwilling to sacrifice 
the chance of a fairly clear shot by descending 
to the brush. 
Obviously our relative positions could not in¬ 
definitely remain unchanged, and as the wood¬ 
cock did not appear to care about moving, I did. 
That bird must have used up all his wildness at 
the first flush, for this time he waited until I 
had wormed my way to within a yard of the dog 
before he jumped; then he went as only a prime 
autumn woodcock can. The twigs and leaves 
made it impossible to see the result of the fhot, 
but Di hustled forward to investigate. I could 
hear his pattering footsteps growing fainter and 
fainter. Then the sound became louder again 
and headed straight for me, pretty good indica¬ 
tion that the search had met with success. Such 
indeed proved to be the case, for one stray 
pellet had struck the bird’s head, dropping him 
as effectively as a dozen could have done. 
Thus, with varying success, we hunted thicket 
and open woods, hillside and swale, until, just 
at sunset, the railway tracks were reached once 
more. Seven birds were stowed away in the 
coat, and their weight felt very satisfactory dur¬ 
ing the homeward tramp along the ties with the 
old dog walking soberly at heel and the evening 
chill settling down over all. 
Robert S. Lemmon. 
Death of Mrs. Bruff. 
The many friends of William J. Bruff, of the 
Union Metallic Cartridge Company, and of the 
M. Hartley Company of this city, will feel a 
deep sympathy for him in his present great sor¬ 
row—the death of his wife. Mrs. Edith Mary 
Bruff died on Thursday at her home, 60 Pierre- 
pont street, Brooklyn. She was a woman of 
high cultivation and devoted to good works. She 
was especially interested in the work of the 
Young Women’s Christian Association. 
