The pain is no greater with the arrow
than with the bullet.
Our hunting of squirrel and rabbits was merely preparatory to the
taking of larger game; but even on our more pretentious expeditions, we
fill the vacant hours with lesser shooting and fill the camp kettle
with sweet tidbits.
Many a quail, partridge, sage hen, or grouse has flown from the heather
into our bag transfixed by a feathered shaft. Both Compton and Young
have shot ducks and geese, some on the wing. But we cannot compete with
the experiences of Maurice Thompson who, shooting ninety-eight arrows,
landed sixteen ducks on the wing.
Some amusing incidents have occurred in bird shooting. We consider the
bluejay a legitimate mark any day; he is a rascal of the deepest dye,
so we always shoot at him. Compton once tried one of his long shots at
a jay on the ground nearly eighty yards off. His line was good, but his
shot fell short. The arrow skidded and struck the bird in the tail just
as he left the ground for flight. The two rose together and sailed off
into space, like an aeroplane, with a preposterously long rudder, the
arrow out behind.
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