Good hunting

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Here snipe and other shore birds of a dozen varieties appear in their appointed seasons. — Page 525.

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“GOOD HUNTING’’

By Jesse Lynch Williams

Illustrations by A. B. Frost

AT the delectable old country-seat
where I am invited for shooting in
* November, there are no beaters to
drive half-tame birds out of well-planted
coverts; no skirmish line of “sportsmen”
deployed upon portable stools and appro-
priately dressed in brave English checks;
no obsequious servants to load and hand

us guns; no gallery of women to applaud
our skill.

We work for our shots, my host and I
and our two congenial friends, the dogs—
his idealistic young pointer, my philo-
sophic old setter. We start out at frosty
dawn and tramp all day through the
russet and red of the autumn woods
5 521

522

“Good Hunting

55

and fields, wading across luscious-smelling
swamps, breaking through cat-brier thick-
ets which tattoo our legs and would make
English tweeds retire in shame to the rag-
bag. There are no game carts to bear
home the trophies of carnage, no game-
keepers — and for that matter there is
sometimes but little game.

Yet I wonder if any of my fellow lovers
of the most ancient and the most royal of
sports is lucky enough to have a better
time w'th a truer sportsman in a more
delightful corner of the country than
has been my portion almost every season
since my host and I were boys together at
college shooting clay pigeons on the gun
club.

I

Except to those who kill to live, or live
to kill, the game bag can no more gauge
the joy of shooting than money-bags the
success of life. Indeed, I know sports-
men, good shots at that, who say they
find more contentment in the lean bag
than in the full one, basing this doctrine
not upon the grim philosophy of the
Stoics, but upon sound Sybaritic princi-
ples of pleasure. More than enough for a
feast dulls the fine edge of appreciation in
the shooting of game as well as in the eat-
ing thereof.

For my part, except when on the West-
ern plains, I’ve seldom had enough of
either! But I agree that to get the keen-
est zest out of shooting I must not only
work but wait for my shots. As a mere
matter of skill, it is more of a feat, of
course, to execute a right and left on
driven pheasants rocketing overhead
than to score a double on “straight-
away” quail flushed over dogs. But, for
one thing, you miss the fun of the dogs.
And so do the dogs, God bless them. If
the object of shooting in the field is sim-
ply to test your skill, why take the trouble
to go into the field? Y ou may get muddy
and tear your clothes. Why not slaughter
live pigeons at the trap and be done with
it?

Not that we are of that modern breed
of sportsmen who pursue game with the
camera. We were trained in the old
school. We have not learned to interest
ourselves in the introspection of birdies

and bunnies, nor to be thrilled by the left
hind footprint of the skunk. We are still
so incompletely evolved from savage an-
cestry as to love the chase more than most
of the joys of life — and for this I offer no
apology and ask no palliation. I suppose
we might try to tell you (and ourselves)
that we carry several pounds of steel and
lead all day through bush and bog until
utterly exhausted, all for the beneficent
purpose of bestowing a swift and painless
death upon quail and woodcock which in
the ordinary course of nature would meet a
violent or a lingering end. That is one of
the familiar sophistries of sport, and sport
is one of civilization’s compromises with
barbarism. There is still a good deal of
the savage left in all of us, including those
who will not admit it, and it might crop
out in ways more harmful to society, less
beneficial to the individual. (It has been
known to happen.) Some men, perhaps,
do not need a safety-valve in order to re-
main social. Others do.

But with equal candor I can say that
although some seasons bring us “ big days”
down there on the old place, days of bar-
baric delight which stand out in recollec-
tion like a crimson swastika on a white
blanket, yet there have been still other
days, failures according to the game book
in the hall, which stand out like pure
gold against the fading weave of happy
memories.

Good shooting, in fine, can help make a
good day’s sport, but poor shooting can-
not mar it, provided time, place, and com-
panionship be perfect. ... So there may
be hope for our descendants !

II

To drain the quintessence of enjoyment
from a shooting trip you should time it to
come at the end of a long sentence of hard
labor. It should loom up ahead of you as
something to work for, to live for; a goal
toward which you are struggling like a
long-distance runner. Then with your
holiday comes the voluptuous peace of an
athlete breaking training. “Toil that is
o’er is sweet,” but it is so much sweeter if
followed by active indulgence in your fa-
vorite form of play than by passive loafing,
which kills so many vacations.

And yet more important than all else, I

We carefully work down the length of the hedge, putting up singles and doubles. — Page 524.

think, is the choice of your playmate.
How many lifelong friendships have
started over guns or the talk of shooting!
How many congenial brothers, from all
over the world, are discovered by mem-
bers of the freemasonry of sport! Wher-
ever found, in the smoking-rooms of clubs,
steamers, or sleeping-cars, and whatever
their station of life — for the true democ-
racy of outdoors is too robust for artificial
distinctions — they nearly always turn out
to be real people, likable, reliable fellows,
the sort instinctively trusted by women,
adored by children, and abjectly wor-
shipped by dogs. Their faults may some-
times be those of conviviality or reckless-
ness, but of cupidity or smallness rarely.

My friend Billy and I first met in a
cloud of powder smoke. For there were
clouds in those days: our youthful can-
nonading at the traps began before smoke-
less powder came into general use. And
since he first invited me, in Professor
Woodrow Wilson’s class-room, to shoot
quail and ducks with him on a Thanks-
giving holiday, two generations of dogs
have matured from yapping puppyhood,
retired to the dignified leisure of the fire-
side, and, alas! have slipped away to the
happy hunting-ground. Gawky young
saplings have grown into self-centred
trees with self-respecting branches. Cer-
tain well-remembered scenes of hot fusil-
lades in the past have been changed by

523

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“Good Hunting”

time from “ideal cover” into underbrush
too thick to shoot in; while other nooks
and corners, once commonplace, are now
in their turn acquiring the look of those
thrillingly correct backgrounds to A. B.
Frost’s shooting-pictures.

We’ve been at it so long, indeed, that
we work together as a team as well as any
pair of dogs we’ve ever shot over — better,
in some respects, for we aren’t jealous of
each other’s successes, as they often are;
we don’t try to bluff about our failures, as
they have been known to do. And when
the day’s sport is over and all four of us
are taking our well-earned rest by the fire,
the dogs sometimes snarl and have to be
separated; we, as it happens, have never
yet fought — even over politics or religion,
though we differ in both sufficiently to
make conversation. And so, since time
and occupations now allow us to meet but
rarely during the rest of the year, the an-
nual oiling up of guns means more than
companionable indulgence in our favorite
sport. It means the reunion of two old
friends who know each other’s ways and
like them.

As for the place where I enjoy these
blessings, doubtless it was not designed
originally for a game preserve, but it would
be hard to find a better location for one
within such easy reach of town. The
broad acres, remote from the railroad, in-
convenient for poachers, and completely
hidden from the highway by several miles
of woods, lie tucked away upon a sunny,
sequestered neck of land between a small
river, in which there are sometimes trout
in the spring, and a great bay, in which
there are always ducks in the fall. The
land is no longer used for farming, and one
might suppose it had been laid out express-
ly for quail, as we in the North incor-
rectly term the Bob White, known as par-
tridge in the South and recognized as the
king of American game-birds in all sec-
tions. Each of the many fields is en-
closed, not by fences (which are more or
less dangerous to climb with a loaded gun,
and a nuisance in any case), but by deep
borders of trees of ancient planting, like
the bauks of English estates. These, lo-
cally called “hedges,” though that has
always seemed to me a frivolous term for
such dignified oaks, make perfect cover.
When the dogs locate a covey in the open

and we have flushed and shot at the birds
on the rise, they scatter, after the manner
of quail, for the nearest hedge, but, also
after the manner of quail, they seldom fly
beyond the first one they come to. So,
bidding the dogs keep close, we care-
fully work down the length of the hedge,
putting up singles and doubles. The
undergrowth is thick enough to make
the birds lie close, and the trees are not
too thick for shooting. But you must
shoot quick. It makes a good sporting
chance.

After a day or two of this our legs give
out, for after all ours are only human legs,
and we have but two apiece. Of late
years we have observed — with amuse-
ment, if not with alarm — a growing tend-
ency to take the car when going “down
neck” to “Injun Point,” “Little Boat
Place,” “Big Boat Place,” or any of the
remote portions of the estate. Indeed, as
there are usually openings through the
hedges, and all of the fields are level and
most of them unploughed, we sometimes
stay in the car, plunging and bumping
about through the long grass, until the
dogs strike a scent. Then we jump out,
shouting “steady” and “careful,” flush
the covey and follow where they lead. It
is something like the method of shooting
quail in the South, only there it is done on
horseback. Cross-country riding by mo-
tor is, so far as I know, a new sport of our
own invention.

When we have had enough quail-shoot-
ing, or even before that point is reached,
we chain up the dogs, by this time also
fagged, and, arising before dawn, set sail
by starlight in a “scooter,” laden with
duck decoys, for one of the low-lying
points which the salt meadows thrust like
fingers into the bay. There, luxuriously
resting at full length upon the soft mud
and sedge, with rubber blankets and hip-
boots intervening for our comfort, we
listen to the soporific breezes in the rushes,
or to each other’s ideas for correcting the
universe — which also, at times, has a so-
porific effect — until a bunch of broadbill,
redhead, or black ducks comes hurtling in
over the decoys. Then we neglect the
rest of the universe entirely.

That, of course, is just what we are
there for— -to forget. No other means,
as the late President Cleveland used to

Putting out decoys.

Set sail by starlight in a “ scooter,” laden with duck decoys.— Page 524.

say, is quite so successful for the purpose
as shooting. Such is a man’s absorption
that frequently one of us asks the other,
seated scarcely a yard away, “Did you
shoot, too?”

A mile of the outer beach across the bay
belongs to the estate, and here snipe and
other shore birds of a dozen varieties ap-
pear in their appointed seasons. In the
woods near the house ruffed grouse are
found — infrequently enough to be appreci-
ated. And down in the rich black loam
of the river banks, under low-lying al-
ders, hides the elusive woodcock, often
in considerable numbers, though when to

hunt and where to find that most mys-
terious and beautiful of all our American
birds is usually a different matter. Oc-
casionally even deer are seen in the
woods, though no attempt is made to
shoot them.

That is a goodly variety of game for a
country place within three hours of New
York by rail, just a pleasant afternoon’s
run by motor over roads famous for
smoothness. Nor is this place stocked
with game, except occasionally in the case
of quail, when the winters have been too
severe or the foxes and owls too prolific for
the coveys to survive.

525

526

“Good Hunting

5)

III

But, for my part, an annual pilgrimage
to the scene of these delights would be a
gratifying privilege, even without the fe-
licity of friendship or the fun of shooting:
An ancestral homestead, built half a cen-
tury or so before the Revolution and oc-
cupied by the direct descendants of the
builder for at least a part of every year

the land, so the story goes, on a gambling
debt from a neighbor whose descendants,
as it happens, are neighbors to this day.
The latter still have on fading parchment
the original grant for the whole tract from
the royal William and Mary. “He re-
mained an exile from his estate for seven
years,” a local historian writes of William
the Signer. “ The devastations committed
on his property were very great.” But

In the woods near the house ruffed grouse are found. — Page 525.

since — except when the British occupied
it, the family having fled for safety to a
neighboring State. The William of that
generation (for I suppose he would resent
being called Billy as much as his present
namesake would object to being called
William) was too entirely well known and
hated by the English to take any risks for
his household, having already taken quite
enough for himself by signing the Declara-
tion of Independence and raising a regi-
ment which he was now leading as a
general in the field — a grim, determined
William, judging from the portrait which
hangs in the hall over the sword he fought
with and the pen he also risked his life
with — in order, I suppose, that his de-
scendant and I might kill quail. . . . Well,
William immortalized himself as a pa-
triot, but I’d rather go shooting with Billy.

William was of the fourth generation
back from the present, and third down
from the original ancestor who acquired

fortunately, although the family silver, so
carefully concealed, was never recovered,
the old house itself, for it was old at the
time of the Revolution, was not destroyed.
With an added wing or two, in keeping
with the rest, it remains to this day as it
was then, a serene and dignified expression
of early Colonial simplicity — long and low
and lovable, well-proportioned rooms and
many of them, low-ceiled, party-raftered,
and with twenty-four small panes in each
of the many old windows.

Gleaming white against the dark pro-
tecting woods to the north, nestling close
to the ancestral sod, and caressed by an
enormous linden-tree which towers high
above the sturdy chimneys, the house
smiles upon a wide expanse of velvet lawn,
level as a billiard-table and undefiled by
flower-beds or bushes. This is bound at a
restful distance by a noble oak frame, also
of ancestral planting. It is a mile or more
to the water, and two vistas have been

“Good Hunting

527

cut through the trees to catch the gleam
of the silver bay and — beyond the tawny
dunes of the outer beach — the crisp blue
band of the thrilling sea.

It is a stalwart old house, constructed in
days before American builders were given
to putting on Georgian airs and graces.
The plain clapboard exterior suggests that
tranquil disdain of decoration which our
best modern architects now display in
some of their chaste domestic exteriors —
certain of Charles Platt’s, for example — -
as if quietly aware of being exquisitely cor-
rect in line and proportion but aristocrat-
ically oblivious to whether you know it or

not. Out of sight, but not many miles
down the coast, numerous smart country
homes rear their conspicuous heads, each
looking just as expensive as it can, or, if
it can’t, then self-consciously “'artistic.”
The summer crowds rushing by on the
train to the resorts of fashion would never
guess, from the desolate little station bear-
ing its name, the existence of this vener-
able estate hidden by its thick wall of
woods, far removed from the highways in-
fested by screeching motors, meditating
on the past in unmolested seclusion.

Up in the garret are rough hide trunks,
studded with brass nails, containing flow-

Down in the rich black loam of the river banks hides the elusive woodcock. — Page 525.

528

“Good Hunting

yy

ered waistcoats, poke bonnets, mob caps.
Under the stout hewn rafters are hand-
made chests and home-made casks, gath-
ering dust. In dark corners lie candle-
moulds, spoon-moulds, and quaint cush-
ioned saddles — all waiting patiently. . . .

As in other old houses diamond scratch-
ings may be found on some of the old
wrinkled window-panes. Now, the gen-
eral had two beautiful daughters, who
were asked in marriage, so the family tra-
dition runs, by two swains who later in the
course of human events became Presi-
dents of these United States, but, if I may
quote one of his great-great-granddaugh-
ters, the humorous annalist of the present
generation, “Unmindful of the laments of
collateral posterity the daughters rejected
them for the superior charms of an army
surgeon and a gallant colonel.” Perhaps
it was one of these belles who, either be-
fore or after her great decision, felt im-
pelled to express her views of the world
upon the window of her boudoir — “ Life is
a blank.” Whatever may have been the
cause, the results were curious, for the dia-
mond slipped upon the glass, the “1” in
“blank” became an “e” and the “k” de-
clined to become at all. So “Life is a
bean” remains to this day the message the
fascinating lady left to collateral posterity
and to its numerous house-parties; thus
showing that even in the good old times
of soft sighs and subtle swoonings, of lace
frills and silver snuff-boxes, ironic reality
had a mischievous trick of touching high
romance with low comedy.

Out in the shadowed garden, recently
restored, is the same path once trod by
this ennuied lady’s dainty slipper when
she ventured forth to gather what were
then called “posies.” Down the lane are
the same oaks beneath which the beaux
and belles of those days strolled and
courted. Young people stroll there still
at times ; only now they wear linen or duck
dresses, and knickerbockers or flannels.
And it is highly improbable that their dia-
logue is adorned with such long and com-
plicated compliments as in those days.
Otherwise it is not so vastly different, I
fancy — more stately then, less artificial
now.

Meanwhile, in any case, the oaks them-
selves have grown more stately than ever,
and the garden path once merely bordered

with box is now completely canopied by it
from end to end. . . . So, after all, there
are advantages in belonging to the present
generation even for purposes of romance
and picturesqueness. Older generations
cannot enjoy the tone of time which they
create for those who follow after. The
glamour of their day did not exist for
them. A dull, prosaic age they doubtless
considered it (witness “Life is a bean”)
until, peradventure, they took a certain
never-to-be-forgotten stroll down the lane
or through the box. Then it did not mat-
ter. For there are older things than oaks,
and more beautiful than gardens.

IV

My first expedition to this entrancing
spot had the added delight of a memo-
rable surprise. Though I had occasion
later to learn how much he loved it, my
shooting pal had told me nothing about
his country home except to say that it was
“an old farm-house — pretty plain,” and
to hope that I would not mind! Now,
even in those youthful days old houses
were a passion with me, and so, at the end
of our long, cold drive by night past an In-
dian reservation and through what seemed
an interminable forest, when I found what
kind of “an old farm-house” it was, it was
love at first sight for me. Here were
broad fireplaces built before the nation
was founded, with full-length logs blaz-
ing cheerily in them ; bewildering passage-
ways with unexpected steps leading up
into one room, down into another; whim-
sical doors with latches which would not
stay latched; antique furniture which had
not come from shops; grandfather clocks
placed there by grandfathers; and an
ancient gun-room with long fowling-pieces
left there by previous generations of
sportsmen — almost everything, in fact,
orthodox old houses ought to have, ex-
cept, to be truthful at the risk of seem-
ing to be carping, there were no ghosts.
Clinging to it all, from cellar to garret,
was that wondrous, that delicious odor of
antiquity, so suggestive of life and its
changes, so eloquent of death which does
not change.

As it happened, good shooting in good
company over good dogs, combined with
bachelor hall in an old country-house,

But, oh, the fun of those early morning starts!— Page 530.

mellow and remote, was a thing I had
fondly dreamed and doubtless written
about. But it is such a rare joy, even in
youth, when life obligingly comes true to
fiction. It proved too much for me.
Despite the deplorable lack of a ghost, I
could not sleep that night.

But for that matter neither did my host,
and he had lived there all his life and his
ancestors before him. The next morn-
ing, when with chattering teeth he came
to wake me at chilly dawn, he explained

that he never could sleep the first night
before shooting. Well, even to this day,
though the years have brought us deeper
joys than good hunting and keener sor-
rows than bad weather, we are usually too
excited to sleep much on the eve of shoot-
ing. He, it seems, is continually startled
by the old horror of not waking until noon
and I by the tantalizing nightmare of a
shell stuck in my gun while a thousand
birds are describing graceful parabolas
about my head.

529

“ He’s got ’em — come up ! ” — Page 531.

And to this day we still arise at an un-
earthly hour, like children on Christmas.
This, of course, is quite unnecessary, un-
less we are going out on the bay after
ducks, for quail are hard to find in the
early hours, before they leave the woods
to forage, and we are sure to get soak-
ing wet in the long grass at dewy dawn
and to be tired out before sunset in any
case.

But, oh, the fun of those early morning
starts! The hurried dressing by candle-
light; the dark, stark silence of the sen-
530

tient old house; the startling creak of the
stairs, the surprising unconcern of the pre-
occupied clock in the hall, ticking loudly,
tocking deliberately. And then the daz-
zling light and the welcome roar of the
crackling fire in the dining-room; the even
more welcome smell of the coffee bubbling
on the old black crane; the hurried break-
fast devoured with boy-like talk and
laughter. And finally, lighting a pipe,
“sweetest at dawn,” and taking up our
glistening guns, we carefully tiptoe out of
the side door — having by this time, to be

“Good Hunting

531

n

sure, thoroughly awakened the rest of the
household.

But we’re off at last! the long-awaited
moment ! Across the frosted lawn comes
the cool, sweet breath of the woods.
Above the clear-cut rim of the sea comes
the inquiring sun. And from far out on
the bay comes a muffled “thrump!” —
some one is shooting ducks. W e slip shells
into our guns. We close the breach with
a low clang that is music to our ears and
to the dogs’. They are unleashed now,
they race like mad across the whitened
grass, then back again to us to make sure
that it is all true — are we really going
shooting together again? We are! We
are! They leap and dance and lick our
faces. They bark and whine and bump
their silly old heads against our gun-bar-
rels. For they too have been waiting and
longing for this moment, understanding
all the preparations, crying for joy at the
sight of faded shooting-coats, springing to
their feet at every movement of their
gods. . . .

Perhaps we fail to strike the scent in
“Great Lot,” in “Ballroom Lot,” or the
“Lot Before the Door.” Maybe even
“Lucky Lot” fails us, though that used
always to be a sure place to find a covey or
two, as the name suggests — our own name,
which in turn may be handed down and
accepted unquestioningly by later genera-
tions like the many other local names with
no other authority than custom. Possi-
bly we find it necessary to work far out
through “Muddy Bars” and beyond
“Lun’s Orchard” to the sweet-smelling
cover among the bayberries down by the
water.

The sun is getting high. It is nine
o’clock. It seems like noon. Sweaters
have become a nuisance. The dogs have
lost their first enthusiasm. . . . Then sud-
denly— it is always when least expected —
one of them, ranging casually by a clump
of stunted bushes, stops abruptly as if
instantaneously petrified. It is a most
complete stop. His head was slightly
turned to one side; it remains so. His
tail is straight out behind. His eyes are

fixed and glassy. His nostrils are twitch-
ing.

“He’s got ’em — come up!” We both
run forward, the shells in our pockets rat-
tling. Thirst and fatigue are forgotten
now.

The other dog has seen, heard, and
straightway understands. He too comes
up, but more cautiously. Watch him
putting down one foot at a time gin-
gerly, “backing up” his friend splendidly
— -until he too winds the birds, crouches
suddenly, and stands as if frozen to the
spot. It is a beautiful sight. Beyond,
the brown fields fall away to the blue
water. The dogs are silhouetted against
it. There’s a white sail out there.

“Be ready — they’re lying close.”

Our voices are high and tremulous.

“They’ll turn and make for the woods
— look out for a cross shot.”

We take a step nearer. Though we
cannot see the birds it is now a moral
certainty that there is a covey of quail
here within a few feet of us. And it is
bound to rise in a second or two with a
furious whir of wings which always alarms
the novice and frequently confuses even
veterans like ourselves. We stand with
guns poised, our hearts thumping like
trip-hammers. The dogs are trembling,
but they are holding the point stanchly.

With no premonitory sound or move-
ment there is a sudden roar, a speckled
brown geyser has gushed up out of the
grass at our feet, and a dozen quail are in
the air at once, scudding at high speed for
the woods, while we, remembering or neg-
lecting to “ follow through ” with our cross
shots, empty our guns after them.

V

How many did we bag?

We each scored a right and left, per-
haps. Perhaps we both made double
misses. Four birds or none, it doesn’t
matter much. Every care in the world
was forgotten for the moment, and we
have a picture to remember through the
long days in town.

Vanderbilt residences.

St. Thomas’s Church. University Club.

Hotel Gotham.

/fort foc/fos

'f'r (

TWO NEW YORK SKETCHES

A bit of Fifth Avenue above 52c! Street, harmonious in effect, combining residences and a business building. Just
beyond is St. Thomas’s Church, the University Club, and Hotel Gotham. This section has the effect
of being finished although New York is constantly changing in appearance.

532