The Neihart herald. [volume] (Neihart, Mont.) 1890-1901, 1893-04-29
THE QUAIL.

was about 10 years of age when
what / am about to relate occurred.
It was in summer time. In those
days | lived with my father on a
farm in southern Russia. Around
us for a distance of many versts the
steppe extended in every direction.
No forest. no stream, could be found
in the neighboring country; only
shallow ravines, covered by brush
wood and looking like immense
green snakes, here and there made
their way through the otherwise I'm
broken surface of the plains. Tiny
rivulets flowed at the bottom of
these ravines. In places to which
well beaten footpaths generally led
you could see, very near the top of
the bank, small springs of limpid
water, like tears, issue from the
ground, and on their edges in the
damp clay the tracks of numberless
birds and other small animals. Man
and beast alike need fresh, pure wa
ter.
My father was passionately fond
of hunting. Every moment he could
spare from his work-provided the
weather was fine-would see him
take down his rifle, strap his pouch
to his waist, whistle for his old dog
Tresor and start to hunt quail or
partridge. Hare he thought little
of, fit only, he would say with an
air of contempt, to make q hunter
run. These and snipes which came
in the autumn were all the game
found In the neighborhood.
But quails and cartridges we're
quite numerous, especially the lat
ter. In following the banks of the
ravines you would encounter at
every step little hollows in the dry
ground where they love to squat.
Old Tresor would then come to a
sudden stop, his tail wagging furious
ly and his forehead gathering in
wrinkles, while my father, pale with
excitement, would cautiously raise
the hammer of his gun.
AT times, to my great joy, l would
be permitted to accompany him. l
used to tuck the legs of my trousers
into the tops of my boots, hang my
little flask I'VE my shoulders, and
so equipped would imagine myself a
true sportsman. Though perspiration
might cover me from head to foot
and gravel and dust enter my shoes,
! never felt the least fatigued and
never in a single instance allowed
myself to drop behind. At each re-
port of the gun and as soon as the
bird fell | bounded forward with
joyous shout felt so happy. The
wounded quail might struggle, flap
its wings, sometimes on the ground,
at other times in Tresor's mouth, it's
blood fowl only became enthusi-
astic; | never felt the least senti.
ment of pity.
What wouldn't | have given to be
able to fire a gun myself, to kill
quails and cartridges with my own
hand9 But my father had repeated
ly explained to me that I was not to
have a gun until reached the age
of IL, and that then l was to have a
single barreled gun, and that Iwould
be allowed to shoot larks only.
Large numbers of these were found
near u house; OF sunny days you
could see them by the dozens in the
clear sky, mounting higher, ever
higher, with chirps resembling the
tinkling of little bells.
l looked upon them as my future
spoil and aimed at them with a
stick which | carried over my Shout
der like a gun. 1t is very easy to
get close to them when they hover
with quivering wings perhaps five OF
six feet above the ground before sud.
denly plunging into the grass.
Sometimes, in the distance, on
stubble fields or green prairie, bus
tards could be "Ah," I would
sigh, ITO kill a big bird like that and
then die"
l pointed them out to my father
with my finger, but he would invari
ably answer that the bustard was a
very shy bird, which would not per
NIT anybody to get hear it. Once,
however, he attempted to steal upon a
solitary bustard, thinking that it had
been wounded perhaps and was lag.
ging behind the rest of the flock.
He ordered Tresor to keep behind
him and babe me not to stir. Charg
ing his gun with buckshot, he
turned to the dog and exclaimed in s
low voice, Back, back!" Then, cow
ering as low as possible, he advanced
cautiously upon the bustard.
Tresor would not crouch down