- POREST 
Vol. XCV, No. 11 

A Mixed Bag 
STREAM 
November, 1925 
Experiences in Upland Shooting and a Few Hints on 
"VE found more birds, made bigger 
bags, but somehow it stands out as 
a veritable golden day on the up- 
lands. Our dogs, the weather, com- 
panionship, our shooting, each and all 
enter into and form a part of that in- 
describable whole which marks some 
day afield as a very heaven in our 
sporting career. Well, so it was. 
The gradual changing of the farm 
lands in my near neighborhood from 
great grain fields to vegetable and 
truck crops, together with the ever in- 
creasing number of pot hunters, had 
forced me, not without reluctance and 
some misgivings to send “Violet” and 
“Primrose” to an old friend some forty 
miles from home, and in the best game 
corner of the next county. Charlie 
Rogers had a famous pair of dogs of 
his own, was a far better handler than 
I can ever hope to be, and I thought 
that thus equipped we might put in a 
good season together. We did, but this 
day was the best. 
Hello! Is that you, Mrs. Charlie? 
Will you please tell your Lord and 
Mastér— What? Well, of course, he’s 
not your Master, but anyhow please 
tell Charlie that I’ll be down for an 
early breakfast, and to have the dogs 
ready. Yes, all the dogs, and a lunch 
for each of us. The old Scott is taken 
off the rack, given an extra rub and 
slipped into its canvas cover, cartridge 
vest is filled and shooting togs laid out 
ready for an early start. After set- 
ting the alarm clock for five-thirty a.m. 
I turn in. 
Bundled in a big fur coat and with 
gun and shells in the back of the car, 
I was on my way by six next morning. 
It was still quite dark as I sped through 
several sleepy villages, and I had cov- 
ered half the journey by the time that 
the dawn of a gray November day dis- 
closed the rolling brown and _ russet 
landscape of northern Suffolk County. 
The sun peeped over the pines as the 
car rolled smoothly past the pictur- 
Where to Find Birds 
By CAPT. BEVERLEY W. ROBINSON 
esque shores of Artist’s Lake, the edges 
of which were just skimmed here and 
there with thinly fretted ice. 

Grouse or pheasant? 
Passing an old field of stacked corn, 
the waving flags of a big white-tail 
buck and doe flashed towards the bor- 
dering woodland as they disappeared in 
graceful bounds over an old snake fence 
at its edge. They had been revelling 
in a toothsome breakfast of the farm- 
er’s corn. The deer now enjoy con- 
tinued protection here and are again 
becoming quite plentiful. 
T breakfast we decided to take 
Charlie’s old campaigners “Smut” 
and “Dose” for the broken country to 
the westward in the morning’s shoot 
and to give my two young ladies a go 
over the big stubbles to the east in the 
afternoon. “Dose” was a_ béautiful 
black and white pointer in the very 
prime of her four busy years with the 
quail and grouse, while “Smut” was in 
every line of his splendid frame an 
Contents Copyrighted by Forest and Stream Pub. Co, 
Irish Setter through and through, and 
yet, as one might infer from his name, 
he was quite black. Doubtless there 
was some bar sinister on his otherwise 
stainless escutcheon, but whatever it 
was, there never lived a dog who, until 
his dying day, combined nose, stamina, 
brains, and sagacity to better advan- 
tage in the field. 
sf SOUTHERLY wind and a 
cloudy sky proclaim a hunting 
morn,” and, if the old song spoke truly, 
all conditions of wind and weather 
augured well for a day of good sport. 
The white frost of the early morning 
was, as it generally is, followed by a 
mild gray day with that hazy, smoky 
atmosphere so essentially a part of the 
season of “falling leaf and fading 
trees.” 
It was one of those mornings when 
you felt as if you could almost scent 
the game yourself. Waving a “Good 
morning” to the station master, we 
crossed to the north of the railroad 
track and took the lane through the 
grove of young oaks. The dogs well 
knew that the old weed field on the hill- 
side was our first “draw,” and as we 
neared the end of the wood lane, they 
strained so on the leashes that their 
breath came in excited pants and fore- 
legs were lifted clear of the ground. 
“Quiet, quiet,” and as we stooped to 
loose them, little smothered whimpers 
of eagerness were with difficulty re- 
strained. “Get away,” and they were 
off, lightning fast. Yes, so fast, in- 
deed, as to appear almost reckless to 
the uninitiated, but no slightest touch 
of stampede ever taints their fleeting 
casts. There is method in every move, 
as like two perfect machines, set at top 
speed, these old campaigners quarter 
their ground. Crossing each other out 
in the centre of the field, they cut down 
their pace and seem momentarily to 
hesitate with madly lashing  sterns. 
Then they’re on again. We soon see 
643 
