 | SNIPE ON THE UPLAND. The Warwick woodlands, or, Things as they were there, ten years ago |  |
6. SNIPE ON THE UPLAND.
“Now then, boys, we've no time to lose,” said Archer, as he
replaced his knives, which he had been employed in wiping with
great care, in their respective scabbards, “it's getting toward
eight o'clock, and I feel tolerably peckish, the milk punch and biscuits
notwithstanding; we shall not be in the field before ten o'clock,
do our best for it. Now, Jem,” he continued, as that worthy, followed
by David Seers and the Captain, made their appearance, hot
and breathless, but in high spirits at the glorious termination of the
morning's sport—“Now, Jem, you and the Captain must look out a
good strong pole, and tie that fellow's legs, and carry him between
you as far as Blain's house—you can come up with the wagon this
afternoon and bring him down to the village. What the deuce are
you pottering at that colt about, Tom? He's not hurt a pin's value,
on the contrary—”
“Better for 't, I suppose, you'll be a tellin' me torights; better
for that all-fired etarnal tumble, aint he?” responded the fat chap,
with a lamentable attempt at an ironical smile, put on to hide his
real chagrin.
“In course he is,” replied Frank, who had recovered his wonted
equanimity, and who, having been most unmercifully rallied by the
whole party for leaving his bullets at home, was glad of an opportunity
to carry the war into the enemy's country, “in course he is
a great deal better—if a thing can be said to be better which, under
all circumstances, is so infernally bad, as that brute. I should
think he was better for it. Why, by the time he's had half a dozen
more such purls, he'll leap a six foot fence without shaking a loose
rail. In fact, I'll bet a dollar I carry him back over that same wall
without touching a stone.” And, as he spoke, he set his foot into
the stirrup, as if he were about to put his threat into immediate
execution.
“Quit, Forester—quit, I say—quit, now—consarn the hide on
you”—shouted the fat man, now in great tribulation, and apprehending
a second edition of the tumble—“quit foolin', or by h—l
I'll put a grist of shot, or one of they green cartridges into you stret
away—I will, by the Etarnal!” and as he spoke he dropped the
muzzle of his gun, and put his thumb upon the cock.
“I say quit foolin', too,” cried Harry, “both of you quit it; you
d—d old fool, Tom, do you really suppose he is mad enough to ride
that brute of yours again at the wall?”
“Mad enough!—Yes, I swon he be,” responded Tom; “both of
you be as mad as the hull Asylum down to York. If Frank arn't
mad, then there aint such a word as mad!” But as he spoke he
replaced his gun under his arm, and walked off to his horse, which
he mounted, without farther words, his example being followed by
the whole party, who set off on the spur, and reached the village in
less than half an hour.
Breakfast was on the table when they got there—black tea, produced
from Harry's magazine of stores, rich cream, hot bread, and
Goshen butter—eggs in abundance, boiled, roasted, fried with ham
—an omelet au fines herbes, no inconsiderable token of Tim's culinary
skill—a cold round of spiced beef, and last, not least, a dish of
wood-duck hot from the gridiron.
“By George,” said Harry, “here's a feast for an epicure, and I
can find the appetite.”
“Find it”—said Forester, grinning, who, pretending to eat
nothing or next to nothing, and not to care what was set before him,
was really the greatest gourmet and heaviest feeder of the party—
“Find it, Harry? it's quite new to me that you ever lost it. When
was it, hey?”
“Arter he'd eat a hull roast pig, I reckon—leastwise that might
make Harry lose his'n; but I'll be darned if two would be a sarcumstance
to set before you, Frank, no how. Here's A—, too,
he do n't never eat.”
“These wood-duck are delicious,” answered the Commodore,
who was very busily employed in stowing away his provant. “What
a capital bird it is, Harry.”
“Indeed is it,” said he, “and this is, me judice, the very best way
to eat it, red hot from the gridiron, cooked very quick, and brown on
the outside, and full of gravy when you cut; with a squeeze of a
lemon and a dash of cayenne it is sublime. What say you,
Forester?”
“Oh, you wont ketch him sayin' nauthen, leastwise not this half
hour—but the way he'll keep a feedin' wont be slow, I tell you—
that's the way to judge how Forester likes his grub—jest see how
he takes hold on 't.”
“Are there many wood-duck about this season, Tom?” asked
Forester, affecting to be perfectly careless and indifferent to all that
had passed. “Did you kill these yourself?”
“There was a sight on them a piece back, but they're gittin'
scase—pretty scase now, I tell you. Yes, I shot these down by
Aunt Sally's big spring-hole a Friday. I'd been a lookin' round,
you see, to find where the quail kept afore you came up here—for
I'd a been expectin' you a week and better—and I'd got in quite
late, toward sundown, with an outsidin' bevy, down by the cedar
swamp, and druv them off into the big bog meadows, below Sugar-loaf,
and I'd killed quite a bunch on them—sixteen, I reckon,
Archer; and there was n't but eighteen when I lit on 'em—and it
was gittin' pretty well dark when I came to the big spring, and
little Dash was worn dead out, and I was tired, and hot, and thunderin'
thirsty, so I sets down aside the outlet where the spring
water comes in good and cool, and I was mixin' up a nice long drink
in the big glass we hid last summer down in the mudhole, with
some great cider sperrits—when what should I hear all at once but
whistle, whistlin' over head, the wings of a hull drove on 'em, so
up I buckled the old gun; but they'd plumped down into the crick
fifteen rod off or better, down by the big pin oak, and there they
you. Well, boys, I upped gun and tuck sight stret away, but just
as I was drawin', I kind o' thought I'd got two little charges of
number eight, and that to shoot at ducks at fifteen rod was n't nauthen.
Well, then, I fell a thinkin', and then I sairched my pockets,
and arter a piece found two green cartridges of number three, as
Archer gave me in the Spring, so I drawed out the small shot, and
inned with these, and put fresh caps on to be sarten. But jest
when I'd got ready, the ducks had floated down with the stream,
and dropped behind the pint—so I downed on my knees, and crawled,
and Dash along side on me, for all the world as if the darned dog
knowed; well, I crawled quite a piece, till I'd got under a bit of
alder bush, and then I seen them—all in a lump like, except two—
six ducks and a big drake—feedin', and stickin' down their heads
into the weeds, and flutterin' up their hinder eends, and chatterin'
and jokin'—I could have covered them all with a handkercher, exceptin'
two, as I said afore, one duck and the little drake, and they
was off a rod or better from the rest, at the two different sides of
the stream—the big bunch warn't over ten rods off me, nor so far;
so I tuck sight right at the big drake's neck. The water was quite
clear and still, and seemed to have caught all the little light as was
left by the sun, for the skies had got pretty dark, I tell you; and I
could see his head quite clear agin the water—well, I draw'd trigger,
and the hull charge ripped into 'em—and there was a scrabblin'
and a squatterin' in the water now, I tell you—but not one on 'em
riz—not the darned one of the hull bunch; but up jumped both the
others, and I drawed on the drake—more by the whistlin' of his
wings, than that I seen him—but I drawed stret, Archer, any ways;
and arter I'd pulled half a moment I hard him plump down into the
creek with a splash, and the water sparkled up like a fountain
where he fell. So then I did n't wait to load, but ran along the
bank as hard as I could strick it, and when I'd got down to the spot,
I tell you, little Dash had got two on 'em out afore I came, and was
in with a third. Well, sich a cuttin' and a splashin' as there was
you niver did see, none on you—I guess, for sartin—leastwise I
niver did. I'd killed, you see, the drake and two ducks, dead at
the first fire, but three was only wounded, wing-tipped, and leg-broken,
and I can't tell you what all. It was all of nine o'clock at
night, and dark as h—l, afore I gathered them three ducks—but I
did gather 'em—Lord, boys, why I'd stayed till mornin' but I'd a
got them, sarten. Well, the drake I killed flyin' I could n't find
him that night, no how, for the stream swept him down, and I
had n't got no guide to go by—so I let him go then—but I was up
next mornin' bright and airly, and started up the stream clean from
the bridge here, up through Garry's backside, and my boghole, and
so on along the meadows to Aunt Sally's run—and I looked in every
willow bush that dammed the waters back, like, and every bunch of
weeds, and brier-brake, all the way, and sure enough I found him—
he'd been killed dead, and floated down the crick, and then the
stream had washed him up into a heap of broken sticks and briers,
left him there breast uppermost—and I was glad to find him—for I
think, Archer, as that shot was the nicest, prettiest, etarnal,
damndest, long, good shot, I iver did make, anyhow; and it was so
dark I could n't see him.”
“A sweet shot, Tom”—responded Forester—“a sweet pretty
shot, if there had only been one word of truth in it, which there is
not—do n't answer me, you old thief—shut up instantly, and get
your traps; for we've done feeding, and you've done lying, for the
present at least I hope so—and now we'll out, and see whether
you've poached up all the game in the country.”
“Well, it be gettin late for sartain,” answered Tom, “and that'll
save your little wax skin for the time; but see, jest see, boy, if I
doos n't sarve you out, now, afore sundown!”
“Which way shall we beat, Tom”—asked Harry, as he changed
his riding boots for heavy shooting shoes and leggins—“which
course to-day?”
“Why! Timothy's gittin' out the wagon, and we'll drive up the
old road round the ridge, and so strike in by Minthorne's, and take
them ridges down, and so across the hill—there's some big stubbles
there, and nice thick brush holes along the fence sides, and the boys
doos tell us there be one or two big bevies—but, d—n them, they
will lie!—and over back of Gin'ral Bertolf's barns, and so acrost
the road, and round the upper eend of the big pond, and down the
long swamp into Hell hole, and Tim can meet us with the wagon at
five o'clock under Bill Wisner's white oak—does that suit you?”
“Excellently well, Tom,” replied Harry, “I could not have cut
a better day's work out myself, if I had tried. Well, all the traps
are in, and the dogs, Timothy, is it not so?”
“Ey! ey! Sur,” shouted that worthy from without, “all in, this
half hour, and all roight!”
“Light your cigars then, quick, and let us start—hurrah!”
Within two minutes, they were all seated, Fat Tom in the post
of honor by Harry's side upon the driving box, the Commodore and
Frank, with Timothy, on the back seat, and off they rattled—ten
miles an hour without the whip, up hill and down dale all alike,
for they had but three miles to go, and that was gone in double
quick time.
“What mun Ay do wi' t' horses, Sur?” asked Tim, touching his
castor as he spoke.
“Take them home, to be sure,” replied Harry, “and meet us
with them under the oak tree, close to Mr. Wisner's house, at five
o'clock this evening.”
“Nay! nay! Sur!” answered Tim, with a broad grin, eager to
see the sport, and hating to be sent so unceremoniously home,
“that winna do, I'm thinking—who'll hug t' gam bag, and carry
t' bottles, and make t' loonchun ready; that winna do, Sur, niver.
If you ple-ease, Sur, Ay'll pit oop t' horses i' Measter Minthorne's
barn here, and shak' doon a bite o' hay tull 'em, and so gang on
and hitch oop, and draive doon to t' aik tree!”
“I understand, Tim,” said his master, laughing; “I understand
right well! you want to see the sport.”
“Ayse oophaud it!” grinned Timothy, seeing at once that he
should gain his point.
“Well! well! I do n't care about it; will Minthorne let us put
up the beasts in his barn, Tom?”
“Let us! let us!” exclaimed the fat man; “by G—d I'd like
to see Joe Minthorne, or any other of his breed, a tellin' me I
should n't put my cattle where I pleased; jest let me ketch him
at it!”
“Very well; have it your own way, Tim, take care of the
beasts, and overtake us as quick as you can!” and, as he spoke,
he let down the bars which parted a fine wheat stubble from the
road, and entered the field with the dogs at heel. “We must part
company to beat these little woods, must we not, Tom?”
“I guess so—I'll go on with A—; his Grouse and my Dash
will work well enough, and you and Frank keep down the valley
hereaways; we'll beat that little swamp-hole, and then the open
woods to the brook side, and so along the meadows to the big bottom;
you keep the hill-side coverts, and look the little pond-holes
well on Minthorne's Ridge, you'll find a cock or two there anyhow;
and beat the bushes by the wall; I guess you'll have a bevy jumpin'
up; and try, boys, do, to git 'em down the hill into the boggy bottom,
for we can use them, I tell you!” and so they parted.
Archer and Forester, with Shot and Chase at heel, entered the
little thicket indicated, and beat it carefully, but blank; although
the dogs worked hard, and seemed as if about to make game more
than once. They crossed the road, and came into another little
wood, thicker and wetter than the first, with several springy pools,
although it was almost upon the summit of the hill. Here Harry
took the left or lower hand, bidding Frank keep near the outside at
top, and full ten yards ahead of him.
“And mind, if you hear Tom shoot, or cry `mark,' jump over into
the open field, and be all eyes, for that's their line of country into
the swamp, where we would have them. Hold up, good dogs, hold
up!”
And off they went, crashing and rattling through the dry matted
briers, crossing each other evenly, and quartering the ground with
rare accuracy. Scarcely, however, had they beat ten paces, before
Shot flushed a cock as he was in the very act of turning at the end
of his beat, having run in on him down wind, without crossing the
line of scent. Flip—flip—flap rose the bird, but as the dog had
turned, and was now running from him, he perceived no cause for
alarm, fluttered a yard or two onward, and alighted. The dog, who
had neither scented nor seen the bird, caught the sound of his wing,
and stood stiff on the instant, though his stern was waved doubtfully,
and though he turned his sagacious knowing phiz over his
shoulder, as if to look out for the pinion, the flap of which had arrested
eye fell upon his master, as with his finger on the trigger-guard, and
thumb on the hammer, he was stepping softly up in a direct line,
with eye intently fixed, toward the place where the woodcock had
dropped; he knew as well as though he had been blessed with human
intellect, that game was in the wind, and remained still and
steady. Flip—flap again up jumped the bird.
“Mark cock,” cried Forester, from the other side of the wood,
not having seen any thing, but hearing the sound of the timber doodle's
wing somewhere or other; and at the self-same moment bang!
boomed the full report of Harry's right hand barrel, the feathers
drifting off down wind toward Frank, told him the work was done,
and he asked no question; but ere the cock had struck the ground,
which he did within half a second, completely doubled up—whirr,
whirr-r-r! the loud and startling hubbub of ruffed grouse taking wing
at the report of Harry's gun, succeeded—and instantly, before that
worthy had got his eye about from marking the killed woodcock,
bang! bang! from Forester. Archer dropped butt, and loaded as
fast as it was possible, and bagged his dead bird quietly, but scarcely
had he done so before Frank hailed him.
“Bring up the dogs, old fellow; I knocked down two, and I've
bagged one, but I'm afraid the other's run!”
“Stand still, then—stand still, till I join you. He-here, he-here
good dogs,” cried Harry, striding away through the brush like a
good one.
In a moment he stood by Frank, who was just pocketing his first,
a fine hen grouse.
“The other was the cock,” said Frank, “and a very large one,
too; he was a long shot, but he's very hard hit; he flew against
this tree before he fell, and bounded off it here; look at the
feathers!”
“Aye! we'll have him in a moment; seek dead, Shot; seek,
good dogs; ha! now they wind him; there! Chase has him—no!
he draws again—now Shot is standing; hold up, hold up, lads, he's
running like the mischief, and won't stop till he reaches some thick
covert.”
Bang! bang! “Mark—ma-ark!” bang! bang! “mark, Harry
Archer, mark,” came down the wind in quick succession from the
other party, who were beating some thick briers by the brook side,
at three or four fields' distance.
“Quick, Forester, quick!” shouted Archer; “over the wall, lad,
and mark them! those are quail; I'm man enough to get this fellow
by myself. Steady lads! steady-y-y!” as they were roading
on at the top of their pace. “Toho! toho-o-o, Chase; fie for shame
—don't you see, sir, Shot's got him dead there under his very nose
in those cat-briers. Ha! dead! good lads—good lads; dead! dead!
fetch him, good dog; by George but he is a fine bird. I've got
him, Forester; have you marked down the quail?”
“Aye! aye! in the bog bottom!”
“How many?”
“Twenty-three!”
“Then we'll have sport, by Jove!” and, as he spoke, they entered
a wide rushy pasture, across which, at some two or three
hundred yards, A— and fat Tom were seen advancing toward
them. They had not made three steps before both dogs stood stiff
as stones in the short grass, where there was not a particle of
covert.
“Why, what the deuce is this, Harry?”
“Devil a know know I,” responded he; “but step up to the red
dog, Frank—I'll go to the other—they've got game, and no mistake!”
“Skeap—ske-eap!” up sprang a couple of English snipe before
Shot's nose, and Harry cut them down, a splendid double shot,
before they had flown twenty yards, just as Frank dropped the one
which rose to him at the same moment. At the sound of the guns a
dozen more rose hard by, and fluttering on in rapid zigzags, dropped
once again within a hundred yards—the meadow was alive with
them.
“Did you ever see snipe here before, Tom?” asked Harry, as
he loaded.
“Never in all my life—but it's full now—load up! load up! for
God's sake!”
“No hurry, Tom! Tom—steady! the birds are tame and lie
like stones. We can get thirty or forty here, I know, if you'll be
steady only—but if we go in with these four dogs, we shall lose
all. Here comes Tim with the couples, and we'll take up all but
two!”
“That's right,” said A—; “take up Grouse and Tom's dog,
for they won't hunt with yours—and yours are the steadiest, and
fetch—that's it, Tim, couple them, and carry them away. What
have you killed, Archer?” he added, while his injunctions were
complied with.
“One woodcock and a brace of ruffed grouse! and Frank has
marked down three-and-twenty quail into that rushy bottom yonder,
where we can get every bird of them. We are going to have
great sport to-day!”
“I think so. Tom and I each killed a double shot out of that
bevy!”
“That was well! Now, then, walk slowly and far apart—we
must beat this three or four times, at least—the dogs will get them
up!”
It was not a moment before the first bird rose, but it was quite
two hours, and all the dinner horns had long blown for noon, before
the last was bagged—the four guns having scored, in that one meadow,
forty-nine English snipe—fifteen for Harry Archer—thirteen
for Tom Draw—twelve for the Commodore, and only nine
for Forester, who never killed snipe quite so well as he did cock
or quail.
“And now, boys,” exclaimed Tom, as he flung his huge carcase
on the ground, with a thud that shook it many a rood around—
that 'ar game bag—and I'm h—ll now, I tell you, for a drink!”
“Which will you take to drink, Tom?” inquired Forester, very
gravely—“fowl, pork, or crackers? Here they are, all of them!
I prefer whiskey and water myself!” qualifying, as he spoke, a
moderate cup with some of the ice-cold water which welled out in
a crystal stream from a small basin under the wreathed roots of the
sycamore which overshadowed them.
“None of your nonsense, Forester—hand us the liquor, lad—I'm
dry, I tell you!”
“I wish you'd tell me something I do n't know, then, if you feel
communicative; for I know that you're dry—now and always!
Well! do n't be mad, old fellow, here's the bottle—do n't empty it
—that's all!”
“Well! now I've drinked,” said Tom, after a vast potation, and
a sonorous eructation; “now I've drinked good—we'll have a bite
and rest awhile, and smoke a pipe; and then we'll use them quail,
and we'll have time to pick up twenty cock in Hell-hole afterwards,
and that wont be a slow day's work, I reckon.”
| SNIPE ON THE UPLAND. The Warwick woodlands, or, Things as they were there, ten years ago | |