Shedding light in a desolate place!
Has it ever occurred to you, my friend, that the baby is the same
unchanged, unimproved article since the world began? Men are making
smokeless powder, constructing pneumatic bicycle tires, inventing
long-distance guns, training horses down to two minutes, getting
sprinters to cover 100 yards close to nine seconds--revolutionizing
everything, but leaving the baby the old-time brand!
People seem satisfied with the original make, and far from any movement
to abolish it as out of date. The sentiment would appear to be pretty
universal:
Drear were the world without a child,
Where happy infant never smiled.
We sooner could the flowerets spare,
The tender bud and blossom fair,
Or breath of spring time in the air.
I have said “bye-bye” to my tiny Ted half a dozen times and at last am
about to escape during his sudden flight to another part of the
house, when I am arrested by the eager cry, half in inquiry, half in
jubilation, “Baby barlo! Papa, baby barlo! Dee!”
There he stands, holding up my little patent flask as though he had made
a wonderful discovery. To humor the child I took the little companion,
said “Ta-ta,” and was in the act of slipping it back to my wife, when
I decided to keep it. I am not partial to the cup that cheers and also
inebriates, and yet I have an appreciation of the pocket pistol that
warms, sustains and heartens in a long tramp on a zero afternoon with
only a dog for companionship and the chances of bagging anything much
reduced to a minimum. I stepped to the sideboard and filled the “barlo”
_quantum suff_.
“Ah, Scrib! You're early on deck” was the grunting of the Doc. “None of
the others are here yet. But I guess we'll not have long to wait. There
is surely no laggard or lunkhead in our jolly sextette. On such an
occasion as a Christmas Eve hunt, with an oyster supper at stake, the
resources of our whole happy hunting grounds on trial, and the pluck
and prowess of six rival sports in question there should certainly be no
such word as 'funk!”'
Even as the Doc spoke Tinker dropped in. Hardly was he seated when Shy
puffed his way into the little smoking room. We waited five minutes for
the Judge, and had become impatient before Budge put in an appearance.
What an assortment of unique nomenclature! Gun-club designations they
were, of course. In polite society “Scrib” was the village editor;
“Tinker” was our general store keeper; “The Judge” was young Lawyer
B------; “Budge” was mine host of the Queen's Arms, and the “Doc” was just
the doctor--our large-hearted, clever, hard-working local M. D., the
life and soul of the sport-loving community, as he was also the idol of
the village and district for his skill, his unselfishness and his
unvarying _bonhomie_.
“Budge!” exclaims the Doc. “As president of this club I fine you----”
“I rise to a point of order!” breaks in the Judge. “This meeting is not
yet duly open, and, at all events, this is a special one, and
business of the regular order must be excluded. Referring to the
constitution----”
“Oh, to thunder with the constitution! Let us get off on our hunt!” And
Tinker looks annihilation at the order pointer.
“Well, well, fellows,” laughs the Doc, “I shall rule partially in
favor of both. I shall rule that Budge do tell us his latest joke as a
penalty. Come now, prisoner, out with it and save your fine!”
“Say, boys,” begins Budge, deprecatingly, “don't insist. I'm sorry I
was late, but the fact is I was giving elaborate orders for the supper,
which I know it will be just my luck to get stuck for. One of my special
orders was to secure a magnificent roast and have it cooked in Ben
Jonson style.”
“Ben Jonson style? How is that?” queries the Doc.
“'O, rare Ben Jonson!' There, Mr. President,” he adds, when the laugh
ceases, “I believe that debt is squared.” We have made out our list and
fixed points, ranging from chipmunk, 1, to bear, 1,000.
“You leave out quail, I notice. Now that is an omission which----”
But the Judge is cut short on all sides.
“Out in the wild and woolly West, from whence you have but recently
emigrated to civilization and refinement,” remarks the Doc, “quail are
about as plentiful as hedge sparrows are here. But a quail has not been
seen in this section for ten years, I'll venture to say. No, Judge, we
needn't point on quail this time!”
“And yet,” I observe in an encouraging tone, “who knows but we may each
and all happen on a covey.”
“That is extravagant. But if any man should be lucky enough to bag a
brace, that I may enjoy one more good square meal of quail on toast,
I'll stand the supper.” And the Judge looked straight at Budge.
“Now that is what I would call extravagant--supper for a whole party in
consideration of a dish of quail on toast. Suppose you yourself should
bag the brace. But this reminds me of the man who ordered quail on toast
in a Boston restaurant. He was brought in some toast. He waited a while.
Presently he called the waiter and repeated the order. 'There you are,
sir!' answered Thomas. 'That? That is toast, of course; but where's the
quail?' The waiter pointed to a small speck in the centre of each slice,
looking like a baked fly. 'Ah! so this dish is quail on toast, is it?'
'Yes, sir!' 'Then you just remove it and bring me turkey on toast!'”
We draw lots for choice of directions, and fix 8 p. m. sharp for
reassembling to compare scores. My choice fell on a due north course,
along which, seven miles distant, lay cover where I had scarcely ever
failed to find at least fair sport and to take game, such as it was. And
I went it alone--barring my dog.
[Illustration: 0142]
Seven miles of hard footing it and I had only the brush of a couple of
red squirrels, the wing of a chicken hawk, and the lean carcass of a
small rabbit to show. I had sighted a fox far out of range, and had been
taken unawares by a brace of birds which Charlie had nobly flushed and I
had shockingly muffed.
The dog had followed the birds deeper into the wood, leaving me
angry and uncertain what to do. Suddenly I heard his yelp of rage and
disappointment give place to his business bark, and I knew my pup had a
tree for me. It was a sound not to be mistaken. My dog never now plays
spoof with me by tonguing a tree for hair. His business bark means
partridge every time. I hurried on as the dog gave tongue more sharp and
peremptory, taking a skirt to avoid a tangled piece of underbrush as I
began-to approach the critical spot.
The ruins of an old shanty lay fifty yards to my left, and between them
and me was a sort of _cache_ or root cellar, the sides intact but the
roof half gone.
All of a sudden there broke on my ear a sound I had not heard for many a
day.
I listened, almost dumfounded. There it is again! And no mistaking it.
It is the pipe of a quail!
It came from a patch of meadow not many rods off, and it set every
nerve in my body a-tingling. Charlie and his partridges were out of mind
instanter. I had no manner of use for them at that supreme moment.
“It's no stray bird!” I mentally ejaculated. “Perhaps it's a regular
Kansas covey!” Heavens, what luck! The boys--the Judge--quail on
toast--the laugh--the amazement--the consternation--I conjured all these
things up in my excited brain in less time than it takes to tell it.
I started forward with every fibre a-tension. I was wild to get even a
glimpse of the little strangers.
[Illustration: 0144]
Suddenly--enough almost to puzzle me--the pipe was answered from the
mouth of the old potato pit, and the next instant “whir-r-r-r!” rose the
birds, and “bang! bang!” I gave them right and left at a range and with
a calculation that left three only to join and tell the tale to the
whistler in the meadow. Seven was the drop, and the birds were as plump
and pretty as ever I had set eyes on. I fairly chuckled aloud in glee
at the surprise I had in store for my club mates. I sat down, took a
congratulatory nip, and actually toyed with the quail as a boy would
with the first fruits of his initial day's outing with his own boughten
gun!
My faithful dog Charlie had during this time stuck to his birds. I could
hear his angry bark growing angrier, and I could detect, as I fancied,
a shade of impatience and disappointment therein. A crack at a partridge
will be a change, I thought, and so I hurried in Charlie's direction.
There he sat on a rotten stump, with eyes fixed on the brushy top of a
dead pine.
I looked that top over, limb by limb, but not a sign of a feather could
I detect. I made a circuit, and skinned every twig aloft in a vain
endeavor to discover a roosting bird. I began to think the pup was daft,
but I dismissed the reflection promptly as ungenerous and unfair to my
trusty cocker. I make solemn affidavit that, though I could not note the
suggestion of a partridge up that pine, my spaniel could see it as plain
as a pike staff.
“I'll climb the stump!” said I. _Mirabile dictu!_ There, on lower limbs,
one above the other and hugging the bark so close that they seemed part
of it, were my missed brace!
“Bang!” and the topmost tumbles, nearly knocking his mate off as he
falls.
“Bang!” and down comes No. 2.
[Illustration: 8146]
Charlie manifests a sense of relieved anxiety and satisfaction that of
itself rewards me for the perplexing search.
But a drowsiness had been creeping over me till its influence had
become almost irresistible. I felt stupid and sleep-inclined.
Almost without knowing what I did I pulled out my flask, poured “just a
nip” a fair portion in the cup and drank it off. The twilight was
coming on and casting its sombre shadows, _avant coureurs_ of the black
winter night that was soon to envelop the scene for a brief while, till
fair Luna lit up the heavens and chased Darkness to its gloomy lair.
I have an indistinct recollection of recalling lines I have read
somewhere or other:
When Life's last sun is sinking slow and sad,