


The small European specimen is but 
half the size of our native bird, and 
the color is a dazzling blue, green and 
orange. On English trout streams it is 
just as common, and it is certainly just 
as destructive to the finny tribe. Its 
habits and its form are exactly similar, 
but not so swift of flight, though swift 
enough to be a hard shot, flying in a 
straight line. 
Reynard the Invincible 
(Continued from page 85) 
hours by running foxes all by himself, 
just to keep his nose and voice in trim 
for those rare occasions when his mas- 
ter had leisure for the chase. Reach- 
ing the big woods, I had no mind for 
foxes or Billy’s hound, but was paying 
close attention to my legitimate squir- 
rel shooting when I heard the faint 
baying of a hound. I gave little thought 
to it until sounding nearer I thought, 
“T wonder if Billy’s old hound is on his 
own to-day?” Nearer came that bugle 
note and knowing the fox must be ahead 
of the music, I waited in silence hoping 
I might be near his runway for a pass- 
ing shot, and sure enough I was, for, 
although the old hound was bellowing 
an eighth of a mile back, Reynard him- 
self suddenly appeared at the crest of 
the little gully in which I was stand- 
ing and leisurely trotted down the slope 
in full view a short gunshot away. In- 
tent on the dog, his mind was centered 
on the back track and he never dreamed 
of my presence until I fired and he 
rolled over in the leaves, a flouncing 
kicking mass of fur. Before I could 
reach him, he had struggled to his feet 
and was feebly climbing the opposite 
slope of the gully and I after him, 
trying to stop his flight with a cudgel 
never for a moment considering another 
shot necessary; but gaining strength, 
while I was losing mine, he slipped be- 
hind a log out of sight and was gone. 
HEN came the hound, nose down, 
bellowing on the hot scent and 
without paying the slightest attention 
to me, disappeared in the direcion the 
fox had taken. Gathering up my gun, 
I started after the chase, but the mu- 
sic had ceased and not far away I met 
the hound on the back track, his muzzle 
all bloody and his long sober face reg- 
istering humiliation and complete 
friendliness. I tried to put him on the 
track again and so be led to his cache, 
but he only looked at me mournfully 
as if to say, “O what’s the use” and I 
searched feverishly and faithfully but 
found nothing. Billy told me after- 
ward that the dog’s solitary hunts with 
- no one by to take the wounded foxes 
he now and then picked up, had de- 
veloped the trait of hiding the carcass 
In writing to Advertisers mention Forest and Stream. 
and never revealing its whereabouts. 
I never felt proud of this fox-hunting 
incident. It was a case of absolutely 
poor marksmanship, the range was 
fair, the quarry was not in a hurry 
and I had only myself to blame for the 
loss of the brush. 
NOTHER time my friend Charley 
the artist, invited me to drive over 
to Honeoye Lake for ducks. It was 
early autumn and reports had come that 
the first flights of teal and butterballs 
were dropping into Honeoye and I 
thankfully accepted his invitation. This 
was many years before the advent of 
the automobile and our destination was 
twenty-five miles away, a long drive on 
country roads leading over hills and 
through pleasant valleys. Charley’s 
mare was a sturdy little beast, but we 
never urged her for the day was charm- 
ing and to reach the lake before night- 
fall was all we desired. Arriving at 
the head, we drove down the road skirt- 
ing the eastern shore watching care- 
fully for ducks and a farmhouse where 
we might secure food for man and beast 
with a comfortable bed for the night. 
We saw no ducks, but we did discover 
a likely looking farmstead about mid- 
way down the lake with plums and 
quinces ripening in the front yard and 
a well-loaded orchard at the back. 
ERE we found a gentle old man and 
his wife and they agreed to take 
us in on our own recognizance and we 
sat down to a good supper well satis- 
fied. The old man came out of his 
shell and grew quit loquacious as we 
smoked our pipes beside the fire in the 
evening. As usual with all hunters, we 
were a couple of days late, there having 
been a fine flight of teal last Tuesday, 
and he had heard that the swamp up 
at the head was alive with wood ducks. 
“Mebbe they’ll drop in to-night and 
you can get a crack at ’em in the early 
morning” he concluded as he knocked 
out his pipe and yawned deeply. We 
took the hint, went to bed and slept 
finely and were up before the peep of 
day, but the ducks hadn’t “dropped in.” 
After breakfast, the old man suggested 
that we try the wooded hill back of the 
orchard for partridges as he had often 
seen them there in passing through on 
his way to the upper pasture. AI- 
though we had no dog and knew if we 
got a shot it must be on the ground— 
a most unsportsmanlike proceeding— 
we decided to try it. The hill was a 
series of steep ridges and we each chose 
one and made our way up as quietly as 
possible over the fresh fallen leaves. 
EACHING what seemed to me to be 
a good place for birds as from my 
elevation I could compass a_ good bit 
of territory below me, I stopped and 



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