The pointer had peculiar traits;
His power of scent was small;
But if he saw three birds at once,
He pointed at them all.
For while his nose would indicate
Where one poor piper sat,
His tail, straight as a marline-spike,
Would point another at;
Then if a third one raised its head,
Preparing for the air,
That dog would balance on three legs,
And aim the other there.
With such a pair the quick to scare,
And then retrieve the dead,
The hunters’ sole remaining care
Was how to scatter lead.
They traversed gorge and gully low,
And many a slippery height,
And though their feet did heavier grow,
Their game bags still were light.
While roving o’er the mountain side,
It seemed that every quail
Within the county limits wide
Was piping in the vale;
But when they would forsake the hills,
And in the valleys dive,
It seemed as if the heights around
With bevies were alive.
Boggs had one fault, from childhood brought,
More marked with age it grew;
He never failed to shut both eyes
Whilst he the trigger drew.
This plan might do, if lead he threw
At barns or target rings;
But frightened quail, when turning tail,
Are visionary things.
And let him sight, quick as he might,
Space still would grow between,
And bang! would go the shower of woe
Just where the bird—had been.
’Tis said those knowing canines knew
While men were taking aim,
Whether or not ’twould be their lot
To gather in some game.
So when they saw Boggs shut both eyes
Whene’er the piece he fired,
They dropped upon their hams and howled,
And from the hunt retired.
And he as soon could cause a stump
To walk upon its roots,
As from a sitting posture coax
The two disgusted brutes.
Wide was their aim, and wild the game,
And when such facts do yoke,
There’s many a shot goes off, I wot,
Brings nothing to the “poke.”
The grains were sown, the fields were mown,
The crops proved rather thin;
Oft was the raking summons thrown,
But slow the heads came in.
At last while Gale, just in advance,
Was clambering o’er some logs,
He got a charge of shot by chance,
From the excited Boggs.
Then was there rustling there a spell,
And as you may suppose,
From out the shaking chaparral
Linked oaths profusely rose.
Boggs dropped his gun and forward run,
With apprehension bleached,
And this poor lame excuse begun
When he the butcher reached:
“A splendid shot! I quite forgot
Precisely where you stood;
The birds flew fast, were nearly passed
Behind a screen of wood;
“I must let go, or lose a show
Of bagging three or four,
And in my mind you were behind,
Until I heard you roar.”