
The kennels, clean, dry and airy, were surrounded 
Leashes are unsnapped and away 
they skim down the russet slope of the 
big wheat stubble. As we move for- 
ward, guns are broken open and 
charges slipped in with a hope for 
plenty of birds. 
HIS is a favorite field for the quail 
—low sheltering’ pines to the north 
and across the branch, at its farther 
end, the safe sanctuary of a marshy 
briar patch. 
In broad, sweeping casts, the dogs 
quarter their ground, but with heads 
up and flags waving have yet given no 
sign of game. It’s still pretty early in 
the afternoon and the birds may not 
have moved out from their noon-day 
siesta in the bordering woodland— 
whoa!—steady Mack—Belle’s got ’em. 
Belle has a habit of all but lying down 
to her points—and there she is, over 
by the far corner, flattened out in a 
pose that only means “I’ve found them 
—here they are!” Mack sees her, and, 
now transfixed, honors her find. We 
walk up to where she is pointing, some 
fifty yards from the edge of the 
woods. Bang — bang — bang — 
bang! go four barrels as a big 
covey bursts out of the stubble 
and the strong flying birds go 
whizzing off towards cover. But 
three fat quail hit the ground as 
little gray and russet feathers 
linger in the still air, then float 
off to rest lightly on the tawny 
field. “Dead bird’—“‘good dog”’— 
and, as we pocket the birds, re- 
trieved by Mack and Belle, they 
look at us with as much as to say, 
“how did you like that?” “Now 
we'll find you some more,” and 
away they go. 
S this covey has taken refuge 
in the impenetrable briars 
of the swamp, we leave them 
alone and move on through a fine 
grove of old oaks, festooned in 
long gray-green moss and with 
68 
washed slat fence 
here and there a big bunch of mistletoe. 
As Belle trots along the leaf strewn 
path, she glances aloft, cocking her 
head sideways, then wagging her tail, 
looks at me. But I gently explain to 
her that we don’t want that gray squir- 
rel that’s scurrying along the branches 
overhead. Coming out on the old pas- 
ture, we stop a moment under a per- 
simmon tree to pick up some ripe fruit 
that the frost has now sweetened. 
N our left, a much overgrown 
snake fence forms the boundary of 
a field of rag weed. Flying down paral- 
lel with this, Mack makes a sudden 
half turn and comes to a high headed 
point towards a jungle of dead weeds 
in the corner fence. Br-r-r-r-r-r—and 
a tremendous covey fairly explodes into 
the air. The hedge stands them in good 
stead, but we get two down, each scor- 
ing a miss with our second barrels. 
Now we should get some good shooting, 
for the birds have scaled off down-hill 
and pitched in the tall broom grass and 
scattered pines on the bluff overlooking 
Captain Robinson, Mr. Harry S. Page and 
the trainer 
by a good yard enclosed in a high white- 
“ham PM 

the branch. I climb the overgrown 
fence, and, abreast, we follow down on 
opposite sides of the hedgerow. Bang! 
——and Page downs one, that has stopped 
short, and that he nearly steps on, be- 
fore it booms up with a tremendous 
fuss of feathers. 
ELLE is standing like a carven 
image in the thick yellow grass on 
the knoll just below me. As I get to 
her stern, two birds spring into the air 
giving me a fine open shot and each 
wilts in a little cloud of feathers. I 
reload, but Belle hasn’t moved an inch 
and just then another, and then an- 
other bird leaves the ground. They 
all take the same course, straight 
across stream, and each falls limp in 
mid-air. Four more singles meet the 
same fate before I have moved ten steps 
and only then Belle moves on. Old 
Amos, who has climbed down the bank 
to retrieve the birds, calls up to me. 
“Lordy! Cap’n yo’ all has jus’ natr’lly 
filled the branch with birds!” 
In the meantime Page with Mack 
is having a little tea party of his 
own off in the swale to the right, 
and I hear him popping merrily 
away as, with unerring precision, 
Mack leads him from point to 
point. We join forces again down 
by the dam, near the sugar mill 
and comparing notes, find that 
we have done pretty well with 
that covey, though there must be 
still near to two dozen birds left 
Thal div; 
VER the hill we have a look 
through an old cotton lot 
where the dried stalks and weeds 
offer a likely cover. This, how- 
ever, seems empty of game, so 
taking the wood lane, we head for 
the big stubbles over near the 
Harford County line. The after- 
noon is now well on and it is the 
time of all in which to find quail , 
out in the fields, gleaning their 
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