Democratic Sentinel, Volume 16, Number 8, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 11 March 1892 — Heron and Retriever. [ARTICLE]

Heron and Retriever.

Three or four weeks ago, writes a correspondent of the Youth’s Cbmpanion, 1 was shooting cock imd partridge along the banks of the Musquodoboit, a Nova Scotia river. My dog was a smooth-haired animal, a cross between a pointer and a retriever. As we came out on theedge of one of those little wild meadows called “intervales,” a huge heron rose sluggishly from behind a clump of alders. It was a fine bird, and 1 wanted it as a specimen. At rather long range I fired, and the heron, lurching heavily to one side, came down in the center of a shallow pool. Then it gathered itself together at once, and stood staring about as if bewildered. As I approached, with Rob at my heels, it raised one wing as if to fly, then drew its head back and took up a posture of defense. It was evident that my shot had in some way disabled the other wing, which, however, was not broken, but was held firmly trussed up as if uninjured. The pool in which the bird stood was perhaps six inches deep, and I ordered Rob in to fetch the game. The dog dashed forward eagerly, as if to pick up but was met by a Vicious thrust from the heron’s beak that drove him back In astonishment. His anger and confusion were amusing to witness. As for the heron, it stood immovable, its head back upon its shoulders, its keen eyes sparkling defiantly. In a moment Rob returned to the attack. He ran around and tried to seize the bird by the tail; but the bird’s head went about like lightning on the pivot of, .its long and snakelike neck, while its body never moved; and again Rob received a blow which made him yelp. He drew off a few feet, and then ran round and round his enemy, seeking an opening; but everywhere he found himself opposed by that terri-

ble Javelin of a beak. It seemed aa if the bird must twist his head off in time, but no such disaster occurred. Whenever the furious dog would make a dash for the bird’s tail, out would dart the long, fine weapon, bringing blood where it smote, and hurling back the onslaught. Presently Rob gave a howl of disgust, tucked his tail between his legs and scurried in paftic from the water. Then, concluding that the plucky bird deserved a better fate than to be stuffed, I threw my jacket over his head and made him a prisoner. He has never recovered the use of his wing, but he presides with dignity and authority over my poul-try-yard.