describing the theories of the hunt. The dentist, nicknamed “Old Bang, Damn, Bang, Damn”, the Major told me, ascribed to the “shoot and shoot and never aim” philosophy. The publisher (they called him “Slow Motion”) had the reputation of swinging his gun barrel along a bird’s line of flight until it was far beyond gun range. He was an adherent of the “aim and aim and never shoot” philosophy.
During the next day’s hunt, my instruction continued. Finding me walking at the end of the line of hunters, the Major taught me to walk between the two men who owned hunting dogs. He explained it by saying the dogs will hunt in front of their owners and you’ll get more action than will any idiot who hunts at the end of the line
I learned about grouse. If undisturbed by a hunting dog, they are capable of sitting as quietly as the guest of honor at a funeral. You can walk up to them or even past them before they flush. When one unexpectedly exploded from the underbrush beneath my feet, I learned to drop my gun, fall to the ground in alarm and panic and throw my arms over my head in a protective fashion.
The first time one of them erupted from beneath me. I found myself imploring Jehovah to please save me and promising, in exchange, to attend church every Sunday for a year. Five minutes later, when my heart rate was still a bit elevated and my palms still a bit moist, the bribe offered to Jehovah was reconstituted to provide for church attendance every other Sunday for six months.
I also learned how to carry a shotgun in grouse covert. While the “port arms” position is favored by many hunters, I like the less popular “cross arm” carry. With the gun cradled in the crook of my arm, at the sound of an exploding grouse, I was able to jump and turn in mid-air without dropping the shotgun more than half the time.
However, it was the “shoulder carry” that produced my success. With my right hand on the breech mechanism, I swung the two barrels of the shotgun up and backwards until they rested on my shoulder. At that moment, a bird flushed from right behind me and I panicked. I clenched my fist and inadvertently knocked off the safety. As I covered my head and reverently shouted out the name of deity, I squeezed the trigger and the gun went off.
I was surprised when the dog named Pfizer (a Lab, of course) ran back past me, found the unfortunate bird, returned and executed a perfect hand retrieve - to Major Peabody. Since the other members of the party knew he hadn’t fired, he graciously handed the grouse to me and said “Nice shot”.
I was proud of that Ruffed Grouse. Later, upon closer examination, I found it contained 4893 feathers - not counting the down. This was more than ten percent over the average for the species and, thus, a trophy specimen. I decided to have it mounted, but, after many hours of tedious work, I was able to replace no more than 2000 of the feathers. The bird was beginning to smell and I abandoned the project.
Where is Thy Sting
Major Nathaniel Peabody is the sole beneficiary of the Peabody Family Spendthrift Trust. It was established to insure him of a comfortable life. Major Peabody and the trust instrument have different definitions of the term “comfortable life”. The Major thinks it means “whatever he thinks he needs”. The trust document, however, clearly defines the amount of his monthly stipend.
Unable to negotiate an increase in the amount of his first-day-of-the-month remittances the Major has been forced to compromise. He lives quite frugally - if you don’t count aged single malt Scotch whisky, imported cigars and every conceivable expenditure vaguely associated with shotguns, hunting equipment or hunting expeditions.
Some of Peabody’s expeditions take him to exotic places in Europe or Africa or Latin America and are quite expensive. Others are more informal and less costly. Where Peabody hunts depends entirely upon the amount of cash contained in the cigar box he hides under his bed. Last month, the cigar box was nearly depleted. Peabody wanted to go to Maine. He came to me and explained the reason for his trip.
Unruly gangs were taking over large tracts of land in the northern part of that State. Behaving in a generally riotous manner, they violated the rights of the local inhabitants by disregarding No Trespassing signs and adversely possessing some of their properties. The Sheriff flatly refused to act on any of the complaints registered with him. He contended he had no jurisdiction because woodcock are considered to be migratory waterfowl and, as such, the problem was one for the federal government. Everyone knew it was an excuse. The sheriff was afraid of them.
According to Peabody, a friend, Jim Zimmerman, owned a cabin and a few forties in that part of the State. It was October and Zimmerman’s property was infested with migrating wood-cock. Outraged by their presence and desperate for relief, the man decided to take the law into his own hands. He bought a shotgun and a case of 7 ½ chilled shells and prepared to defend his property.
Days later, though his upper arm was black and blue, Zimmerman had failed to reduce the woodcock population. (Afterwards, he claimed he had only been trying to frighten them.) Zimmerman called Major Peabody and Doctor Carmichael, begging them to join him and a few friends and rid his property of those damned birds.
With this lengthy explanation and an appeal to “my well-known charitable impulse to help a fellow human being in dire straits”, Peabody asked for an additional piece of the trust corpus in order to make his trip “more comfortable”. It wasn’t the end of the month. I refused his request and gave him a lecture on the need to more carefully control his expenses. Peabody had to undertake his expedition with no help from the trust monies.
* * * * *
The following day, Peabody and Carmichael met with the group convened at Jim Zimmerman’s cabin. They formed a Vigilante Committee and sworn to maintain the peace, be kind to widows and orphans and drive the woodcock from the County. Peabody’s initial impressions of the Committeemen were, by and large, favorable.
Their shotguns and hunting clothing did not have an unused look and one of the men brought dosages of top quality medicinal single malt Scotch to be used in the stead of the blended stuff provided by the camp. After paying for his air transportation, the Major’s delicate financial condition did not allow him to provide for his own refreshments. His liquid funds were insufficient.
One of the Committeemen, however, did not pass muster. He was the camp cook. The Major had not seen a more disgusting, shifty-eyed and untrustworthy looking specimen since he visited the United States Senate. (This assessment of the man was confirmed when the cook admitted he was a banker from Milwaukee.)
The next day’s hunt was successful. The Vigilantes had reason to believe - once their presence was more widely known - the hated woodcock would abandon the area with fear and trembling and decide to quickly migrate south, leaving the good people of Maine in peace.
After another good day in the field, when the hunters returned to the cabin, the Major’s opinion of the cook proved to be correct. The man was unreliable. He neglected to bring a supply of soda crackers and milk for the pre-dinner hors d’oeuvres. His lack of planning forced him to provide substitutions. Without consulting the other hunters, he prepared smoked oysters, ground round steak with onions and pepper on dark rye bread, aged cheddar cheese, and a clam dip with whitefish roe.
Peabody did not bring the man’s failing to the attention of the others. The hunters were all good sports and used to adversity. They accepted the substitutes without complaint and proceeded to relax and review the day activities. By the time they were called to the dinner table, the sun was down, the kerosene lanterns were lit and the Major was telling a story about a gun with a crooked barrel and a constipated owl.
Perhaps it was the dim light - or the beverage - or the distraction caused
