feed of grain before flying off to roost, 
heads out, in a little circle, on some 
sheltered hillside. 
HE end of the lane leads through 
some low pines, and the ground, 
carpeted with soft needles, is of a uni- 
form tawny hue, save where relieved 
by the emerald tones of the low grow- 
ing wintergreen with its little berries 
of bright scarlet. 
Here also is a 
beautiful bush of 
holly with its shiny 
fretted leaves. The 
still air has a 
sweet and _ spicy 
smell of pine and 
fern and seems 
hushed from any 
harsh or jarring 
note. What greater 
privilege, than 
with man’s truest 
friends, thus to 
walk through 
Nature’s drawing 
room. The sinking 
sun is casting long 
shadows over the 
treetops to the field 
beyond, as we 
emerge from the 
wood and wave on 
the dogs. Down 
the edge they take 
it, then, getting a 
telltale whiff, with 
heads up and noses 
searching each 
ereath of air, 
swing right out to 
the center of the 
field — W hoa! — 
look at that! They 
oc. get it at 
the same moment 
and freeze in their 
tracks, from out- 
stretched noses to 
rigid tails. What 
a picture they 
make! Motionless 
as two statues, 
Belle with a foot uplifted, Mack with 
an expression of intense anxiety on his 
intelligent face, one lip curled up in a 
kind of snarl, and, as I move nearer, I 
see his eyes roll in my direction with an 
expression, “Oh, do be careful!” When 
the birds jump, they come back over 
our heads and one that Page cuts out 
of the air with his second barred comes 
spinning down almost knocking off my 
hat. 
They’ve gone back into the pines and 
we decide to give the singles a hunt in 
‘the cover. In spots it is fairly thick, 
but there are many little vistas where 
the pines and arbor vitae stand singly 
in some open swale of yellow grass. 
These are truly educated birds, and 
when they get up, it’s shoot straight 
and fast, or listen to the hum of the 
strong wing's of a missed one vanishing 
through the silent woodland. Misses 
are frequent and many of them quite 
excusable, but we don’t do so badly and 

The author’s setter “Mack” om point 
it is fun to bounce one of those feath- 
ered bullets out of the air, or better 
still, to get a right and left on each side 
of that low pine as they whizz up out 
of a bunch of broom grass. This about 
finishes the day, as the light is getting 
poor, so calling in the dogs, we go back 
to the field and trudge down the wagon 
track, on the far side, until it leads us 
out onto the road where we soon find 
Amos and the wagon. 
The shadows of evening are falling, 
and, as we lift the dogs into their crate 
in the back of the wagon, then slip on 
our overcoats, we pause to listen to 
the plaintive notes of Bob White, off in 
the woods, as he calls his scattered 
family together. 
COW bell sounds faintly from the 
hillside, and from the cabin, down 
in the hollow, a nigger “houn’ dog” 
bays. Beyond this, all is still, and the 
peace of an autumnal evening 
folds its wings 
over the close of 
an ideal day. 
Back again in 
the homelike club- 
house, a piping hot 
tub takes the kinks 
out of limbs slight- 
ly wearied by 
healthy exercise, 
and after dinner, 
we hardly get to 
the end of a sooth- 
ing cigar, before 
its ashes drop in 
our laps and to the 
sandman we will- 
ingly surrender 
our destinies for 
the night. 
Next morning, we 
take out the two 
youngsters, ‘‘Vio- 
let” and ‘“Prim- 
rose,” for a bit of 
schooling in the 
way they should 
go, and, as a living 
example in all that 
pertains to bird- 
dogdom, the old 
veteran “Lady” 
goes along. With 
her able and con- 
scientious  assist- 
ance, her daugh- 
ters acquit them- 
selves like a pair 
of winners, and af- 
ter each bird well 
found and_ point 
staunchly held, she 
wags an approving 
tail, though her 
velvet brow constantly carries little 
worried wrinkles of motherly responsi- 
bility. 
N an enchanted atmosphere of russet 
landscapes, dogs, birds and good 
sport, the days slip by all too rapidly. 
Coming in on the afternoon of New 
Year’s Eve, we find that my wife, ably 
assisted by her ever willing slave, ’Gene, 
has transformed our home into a very 
bower of holly and mistletoe, in which 
waxy leaves and scarlet berries sparkle. 
(Continued on page 109)} 
69 
