When I first began to hunt with Jonathan, he knew so much more than I in these matters that I always accepted his judgment. If he said, "To-day they will be in the swamps," I responded, "To the swamps let us go." But after a time I came to have opinions of my own, and then the era of discussion set in.
"To-day," begins Jonathan judicially, "the wind is north, and the birds will be on the south slopes close to the swamp bottoms to keep warm."
"Now, Jonathan, you know I don't a bit believe in going by the wind. The partridges don't mind wind, their feathers shed it. What they care about is the sun, and to-day the sun is hot,—at least," with a shiver, "it would be if we had feathers on instead of canvas. I believe we shall find them in the big woods."
I usually advocate the big woods, because I like them best for a tramp.
Jonathan, too well content at the prospect of a day's hunt to mind contradiction, says genially, "All right; I'll go wherever you say."
Which always reduces me to terms at once. Above all things, I dislike to make myself answerable for the success or failure of the day. I prefer irresponsible criticism beforehand—and afterwards. So I say hastily, "Oh, no, no! Of course you know a great deal more than I do. We'll go wherever you think best."
"Well, perhaps it is too warm for the swamps to-day. Now, they might be in the birches."
"Oh, dear! Don't let's go to the birches! The birds can't be there. They never are."
"I thought we were going to go where I thought best."
"Yes—but only not to the birches. It's all a private myth of yours about their being there."