A Slight Switch In Tradition

I have never seen a larger pheasant and seldom had an easier shot, and in view of the company I was in—a wife with a pork roast in the oven and two sons—thank heaven I did not miss, but brought him down stone dead with the first barrel.

My excited beaters soon came crashing through the sumacs.

"Did you get him?"

"Did you get him?"

"Did you get him?"

I played the role right to the end, and still sitting on my stick seat pointed toward the canal.

"You'll find him right over there," I said without looking up. I picked a few burrs off my soiled coveralls and tugged my fore-and-aft down a bit.

There was a great whooping when they found the bird, and Billy brought it over and held it out at arm's length. The pheasant was as big as it had seemed to me when I looked over the barrels of my gun.

I rose, took some of the bittersweet vine from the fence, bound the bird's feet together and hung him on the end of the gun. I put the gun over my shoulder, and we marched down the road in single file—Pilgrim fashion—singing Onward, Christian Soldiers, because we knew it better than "Come, ye faithful people, come, /Raise the song of harvest-home."

As we were dressing the bird and feathers were flying all over the kitchen, Sport had a mild fit under the table at Dandy's feet. Steam was hissing out of the rice cooker, the pork roast was sizzling in the oven, a smell of mince pie was in the air, the top blew off a pressure cooker and Benny was stamping around saying, "Bang! Bang!"