The Old Hancock Place

(See front cover)

A year ago, about three miles from Grand Junction, Tenn., a white and liver pointer bitch stopped short crossing a field and stood with her head turned into the wind, toward a patch of scrub oak 20 yards away. A moment later, a bevy of quail slanted into the air and someone blew a whittle. A shot gun went off, loud in the quiet fields, and there was a sudden babble of men's voices. "Did you see her on that last find? . . . As great a bitch as ever won the National. . . ."

The pointer, Mary Blue, by James Ben Hur out of Lee's Grace, drowsing in her kennel at Hayneville, Ala., last week might have been dreaming with a dog's sharp reminiscence of the end of that three hour run; she might have been wondering whether the time had not come for her handler to bring her a platter of lean, raw meat; or she might have guessed, from the smell of the pine crate that was almost overpowering in her infinitely acute nostrils, that she was soon to make another trip to Grand Junction where, on March 5, she must defend her title in the National Championship Bird Dog Trials, against the pick of the best bird dogs in the U. S. The trials to be run at Grand Junction would take up three days at least; the pairing of the dogs, determined by lot, would be read and posted the night before they opened. The dogs would then be taken, by motor or wagon, to the preserve now owned by Hobart Ames of Boston and commonly called the Old Hancock Place, which has been the site of the trials since 1896. There they would be unleashed in pairs, a brace before lunch and another in the afternoon, to work across the country for three or four hours. Handlers would flush the bevies the dogs pointed but no one would shoot over them unless it was requested by the judges. The single shot fired at the trials is to prove that the dog is not gun-shy. A bird dog's superiority is gauged by the excellence of his nose, brains, speed, range, style, courage and endurance.

Put down together, the braces of the National or any other bird dog trials usually race together across open country, heading into the wind toward a likely clump of bushes. At the first scent of game, one or the other of the pair makes his point and if birds are flushed, the judges score a point for him. The dog's opponent comes to an "honor point" and the competition goes on, both dogs striving for the whiff of quail, until the judges are satisfied which of the two is the better worker.

The National Championship Bird Dog Trials, run at Grand Junction every year, are the most important in the U. S.; next come the Free-for-All, won a month ago by Mary Blue at Union Springs, Ala. Correspondingly important are two western trials, the Manitoba and the All-America, run in Saskatchewan every September, in which prairie chicken instead of quail is the game. Elsewhere in the U. S., approximately 160 minor field trials, including derby championships, were held last year.

The spectators at a field trial must stay well behind the dogs. No persons, other than the judges, owners and reporters are allowed to accompany a dog's handler who. while he may speak, whistle or work his dog by hand, is not permitted to make noises disturbing to the opposing dog or to conduct himself in a disorderly fashion. Most celebrated of contemporary handlers is James Monroe Avent, 70,. a shrewd and tight-lipped Tennessee squire who has never been known to play poker with his competitors after a day in the field, who never divulges information as to good quail country which he knows more thoroughly than anyone else. The tricks used by handlers in the field are seldom so ingenious, as that habitually practiced by the late Ed Gar, who always carried a land turtle in his pocket, showed it to the judges when his dog make a false point. Some field dogs will stand a land turtle or a stinkbird; demerits are rarely attached to such a mistake.

The running of the National was post-poned six weeks because of unseasonable rains late in January, and the sporting men who came to Grand Junction for the trials were pleased to see that early March weather apparently promised a fair test for all dogs entered. The ground was moist but not frosty; the clover and corn-stubble fields on the Old Hancock Place were overrun with quail. Bird-dog owners or their paid handlers gathered together and argued Mary Blue's chances of repeating her victory with several new dogs who had been "derbies" the previous year entered against her. They made wagers, inspected the new dogs, and debated the perennial problem of bird dog esthetics: is a pointer or a setter better?

Setters are generally preferred for work in rough country, especially for ruffed grouse and woodcock, because of their well-feathered legs and toe-tufts. In the South, pointers are more popular. Both have the same working technique: each has devotees who belittle the other. Setter fanciers assert that while pointers may be steadier and superior in endurance, they can never hope to possess the finesse, the pure brilliance of style, of a really fine Laverack or Llewellin setter. Pointer men laugh at this prejudice, tend to regard setters as picture book dogs whose pretty coats and mannered poses are virtues easily excelled by the dependability of a needle-tailed pointer.

Said one pointer man last week: "Mary Blue was never known to quit in any trial. When it comes to endurance she is in a class by herself and a wonderful bird finder." He was C. H. Harris, trainer of Mary Blue for Walter C. Teagle (President, Standard Oil Co. of N. J.), whose Slipaway was also entered in the National. For C. H. Harris the setter v. pointer argument was settled every time he looked at Mary Blue, grinning at him and wrinkling her blunt, moist, miraculous nose. A setter was a fine dog to shoot over; but when it came to field trials he wanted to see Mary Blue, after four hours on a wide range, point her last single; a pale, liver-spotted statue of a dog, outlined in arrested motion against the background of Japanese clover and the rolling country of the Old Hancock Place.

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