steadiest of dogs. Our seasoned cam- 
paigners, however, “nail” several sin- 
gles for us, and, interspersed with not 
a few misses, we manage to bag three 
more before the impenetrable tangle of 
a bull-brier swamp impedes further 
progress. 
AKING a detour around this, the 
old peach orchard and some weed 
fields of a deserted farm are drawn 
blank, then beyond we come on the 
land formerly leased by The Game 
Breeders Club, but now also tenantless. 
We sit on an old log down in the wood 
corner of the home lot, for a smoke 
and an icy drink from the spring that 
bubbles up out of a sunken barrel. The 
dogs also have a refreshing lap and 
stretch themselves on the mossy and 
fern-clad edge of the little stream. Up 
and on again we work the big fields 
north of the turnpike road in a broad 
overgrown hedgerow, both dogs get 
their noses down and show in every 
move that game is ahead. There! they 
both stop, but no, carefully they move 
on, then again stop momentarily before 
again worming their way forward. 
Whatever it is, is running ahead of 
them. I crawl through the hedge row, 
and keeping up to the dogs we follow 
down its opposite sides. 
“Look out there, ahead of ‘Smut’,” 
calls Charlie, just as the old dog halts 
in a high-headed point. But the tip 
of his tail is just quivering in a ner- 
vous way, a sure sign to me that the 
game is not quail, and that it is still 
running. Bang! goes Charlie’s gun 
and then out on my side—with much 
fuss—and a kuk-kuk-kuk-kuk bursts a 
big cock pheasant resplendent in all 
the glory of his autumn uniform. He 
makes a fine target, and, just as he 
gets straightened out over the top of 
the hedge, I let him have it, and, with 
his plumed tail pointing skyward, he 
takes a nose dive into the field. Char- 
lie had accounted for the other pheas- 
ant that had broken cover on his side 
of the hedge. 
(As we were congratulating our- 
selves, like a pair of schoolboys 
out on a lark, away went two hens and 
another cock from farther down the 
hedge. Faintly we hear the kuk-kuk- 
kuk-kuk of the old cock as they scale 
down hill across the road and pitch 
into the safe retreat of a cedar swamp 
where, owing to the boggy and treach- 
erous going, it is impossible to follow 
them. In the buckwheat stubble down 
on the Manorville road we find a small 
covey of quail but only succeed in 
downing one of them before they es- 
cape into the thick pines. We have a 
friendly argument as to who killed the 
bird, and finally settle it by admitting 
that it is not the one that either of us 
fired at. The day is an ideal one, quite 
cool enough to make our tramping a 
pleasure, and with now and then a 
light breath of air from the south 
laden with the aromatic spice of pine 
and sweet fern. Everything has gone 
well, and though our bag is of no great 
proportions we’ve been jucky in the va- 
riety of game found and feel in the 
best of spirits over our morning’s 
sport. 
Trudging through the soft yellow 
grass of a long swale dotted with dark 
little cedars, we miss old “Smut.” “I 
thought he was off on your side,” said 
Charlie, but no, the old dog doesn’t 
show up in answer to several blasts 
of the whistle. We have three miles yet 
to go to get back for lunch and a 
change of dogs for the afternoon, but 
any prolonged absence of the old dog 
only means one thing: he’s found birds, 
and we must find him. 
E made a little loop to the south 
slightly retracing our steps, 
Charlie now and then giving a call on 
his whistle. Coming to a tumbled down 
fence we see the old dog coming slowly 
towards us, but catching sight of us 
he stops, just wags the end of his tail 
and looks behind him. “Come here, 
old fellow, did you flush some birds?” 
But having come thus far, he takes 
one look at us with a 
worried beseeching ex- 
pression, turns in his 
tracks, glances back to 
see if we are coming, 
then heads _- straight 
back across a_ small 
field, through a thick 
hedge and into another 
little brown _ stubble 
surrounded on _ three 
sides by a grove of low 
pines. It is a secluded 
retreat, and as we fol- 
low “Smut” through 
the hedge, he cuts down 
his pace to a _ tense 
crawl, until right in 
the middle he halts, a 
black statue, every line 
of which says, “Birds 
just ahead of me!” With a roar, a 
tremendous covey bursts into the air 
and we each score a double. As the 
old dog brings in the last plump quail, 
he comes in for an extra bit of pat- 
ting and merited praise. 
He heard us calling all the time, but 
only came to bring us back when he 
felt sure we couldn’t find him. Yet 
some people say that dogs do not rea- 
son! Well, perhaps not, but they often 
show far more sense than that highly 
esteemed animal, man! We were now 
within five or six of our legal bag 

limit of quail, so decided to refrain 
from following up this covey, as we 
wished, if possible, to kill some birds 
over the young dogs in the afternoon 
and had some excellent country to go 
over. 
@ = the youngsters of the kennel 
have been thoroughly schooled in 
the elementary essentials of their con- 
duct in the field, i. e., when they will 
point and back each other and will hold 
steady at shot, the remainder of their 
education becomes largely a matter of 
developing that instinct which, for 
want of a better term, we call “bird 
sense,” or how and where quickly to 
find birds. Some dogs seem, at an 
early age, instinctively to have acquired 
this most valuable attribute, while in 
others it is exhibited only after the 
prolonged experience of many seasons 
in the field. But in either case the 
young dog may receive very material 
assistance in the acquisition of all such 
knowledge from his master to whom, 
indeed, he looks constantly and con- 
scientiously for instruction and encour- 
agement. It is therefore of the utmost 
importance that the sportsman who 
handles his own young dogs should be 
thoroughly well versed in the habits 
and most favored haunts of the game 
sought after. Do all in your power to 
stimulate self-confidence in your dog, 
and the more birds 
found the quicker and 
more surely will this 
be established. Don’t 
discourage and tire out 
your dogs by letting 
them range over bar- 
ren plow land utterly 
devoid of the shortest 
of cover or old pas- 
tures cropped close by 
cattle. Quail go abroad, 
especially in the open, 
to seek their daily 
food. We must there- 
fore look for them 
where we know that 
they are most likely to 
feed or, having fed, 
where they lay up dur- 
ing certain hours of 
the day. 
In the more northern states where 
game is by no means as plentiful or 
widely distributed as formerly, such 
knowledge becomes ever more impor- 
tant to him whose time or means do 
not permit voyaging to distant and 
more favored grounds. Many things 
must be considered. The weather, the 
wind, the time of day, the general na- 
ture of the country, the favorite feed 
and the habits of the birds in the par- 
ticular locality to be hunted are only 
(Continued on page 687) 
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