HERON AND RETRIEVER.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XX, Issue V, 29 January 1898, Page 143

HERON AND RETRIEVER.

Three or four weeks ago, says a writer, I was shooting cock and partridge along the lianks of the Musquodoboit, a Nova Scotia river. My dog was a smoothhaired animal, a cross between a pointer and a retriever. As we came out on the edge of one of the little wild meadows called ‘ intervales,’ a huge heron rose sluggishly from behind a clump of alders. It was a fine bird, and I wanted it as a specimen. At rather long range I fired, ami the heron, lurching heavily to one side, came down in the centre of a shallow pool. Then it gathered itself together at once, and stood staring alioiit as if bewildered. As I approached, with Kob at my heels, it raised one wing as if to fly, then drew its head l>ack and took up a posture of defence. 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 <log dashed forward eagerly, as if to pick up a snipe, 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 snake-like neck, while its body never moved ; and again Rob received a blow which made hint yelp. He drew off a few feet, and then ran round and round his enemy, seeking for an opening ; but everywhere he found himself opposed by that terrible javelin of a beak. It seemed as if the bird must twist its 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 a panic from the water. Then, concluding that the plucky bird deserved a better fate than to tie stnfled, 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 poultry-yard.