"Is it a private myth of mine that you shot those two woodcock in the birches of the upper farm last year? And how about that big gray partridge—"
"Well—of course—that was later in the season. I suppose the birds do eat birch buds when everything else gives out."
And so I criticize, having agreed not to. But it's good for Jonathan; it makes him careful.
"Well, shall it be the swamp?"
"No; if you really think they're in the birches, we'll go there. Besides, the swamp seems a little—chilly—to begin with. Wait till I've seen a bird. Then I shan't mind so."
"Then you do admit it's a cool morning?"
"To paddle in a swamp, yes. The birds don't have to paddle."
We try the birches, and the pretty things whip our faces with their slender twigs in their own inimitable fashion, peculiarly trying to my temper. I can never go through birches long without growing captious.
"Jonathan," I call, as I catch a glimpse of his hunting-coat through an opening, "I thought the birds were in the birches this morning. They don't seem really abundant."
Jonathan, unruffled, suggests that I go along on the edge of the woods while he beats out the middle with the dog, which magnanimous offer shames me into silent if not cheerful acquiescence. Suddenly— whr-r-r—something bursts away in the brush ahead of us. "Mark!" we both call, and, "Did you get his line?" My critical spirit is stilled, and I am suddenly fired with the instinct to follow, follow! It is indeed a primitive instinct, this of the chase. No matter how tired one is, the impulse of pursuit is there. At the close of a long day's hunt, after fifteen miles or so of hard tramping,—equal to twice that of easy walking,—when my feet are heavy and my head dull, I have never seen a partridge fly without feeling ready, eager, to follow anywhere.