But nothing has more comic
situations than an afternoon spent in a ground-hog village. After an
incontinent scuttle to his burrow, an old warrior backs into his hole,
then brazenly lifts his head and fastens his glittering eye upon you.
The contest of quickness then begins; the archer and the marmot play
shoot and dodge until one after the other all the arrows are exhausted
or a hit is registered. The ground-hog never quits. I can recall one
strenuous noon hour in an outcropping of rock where, between shattered
arrows, precipitous chasing of transfixed old warriors, defiant
whistlers on all sides, we piled up nearly a dozen victims.
Quail hunting requires careful shooting, but it is good training for
the bowman. A sentinel cock, sitting on a low limb, warns his covey of
our approach, but he himself makes a gallant mark for the archer. I saw
Compton spit such a bird on his arrow at fifty yards, while a confused
scurrying flock made easy shooting for two hunters. I am ashamed to say
that we have often taken advantage of the evening roosting of these
birds in trees to secure a supper for ourselves.
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