Issue link: http://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/742011
The improvement in his health coincides with the advent of quail season. By HavilaH BaBcock A fter a daylong tramp behind a brace of ambitious dogs, a man doesn't need an appetizer when he sits down to dinner. Nor does he require a lullaby to put him to sleep. And it's a hardy neurosis, indeed, that will outlast a few busy and sparkling days afield in the autumn of the year. Who could ask for a better bracer than a covey of birds deployed in a sedge field at twilight? A rarer cordial than a tableau of hunters tensed about that bombshell poised in the ragweed? Or a more potent elixir than a bevy that pirouettes about your head and goes zigzagging through the treetops? Farmers seldom have nervous break- downs. They haven't the time. People who lead a brisk outdoor existence don't go in for neuroses, psychoses, and other expensive and fashionable complaints. For a stirring day in the field purges the mind. There is such a thing as mental constipation, too, you know. What this country needs right now is a mental laxative. The quail hunter leaves a hierarchy of troubles and worries behind him. He is not wondering whether the bank is going to foreclose, or when that next note will be due. He is not wondering whether he has coal enough in his basement, whether that insurance policy has lapsed, or whether he has enough cash on hand for his next income- tax installment. He is, for the time being, one of those men who are born free and equal. His biggest concern now is whether there's a covey in the edge of that pea patch, whether the singles went in here or deeper, whether he will get a double or an inglorious miss, or whether that overanxious little debutante pointing in the stubble field will hold until he gets there. These are all transient worries that will soon resolve themselves, to be followed by others equally absorbing. After all, a man is entitled to enough trouble to keep his mind occupied. As David Harum so feelingly remarked: "A reasonable amount o' fleas is good fer a dog— keeps him from broodin' over bein' a dog." I am one of those who through some My HealtH Is Better In noveMBer weather and is often in wet clothing the livelong day. He sleeps the sleep of the innocent, unharried by nightmares. His outlook is buoyant, his disposition amiable, and the household hears nothing of his woes—not a solitary complaint—for the next three months. For the master of the household is paying ardent court to Bob White and his bashful bevy. This man sounds suspicious, but let's not convict him on circumstantial evidence. A moderately honest and hard-working man he is, and I have a deal of sympathy for him. I know him well. In fact, I might be pardoned for saying that I hold him in peculiar esteem, for with all my faults I love me still. He is the gent who has been living with my wife for 25 years. The fact that the improvement in my health coincides with the advent of the quail season doesn't mean that my ills during the rest of the year are imaginary. For outdoor pursuits have a recognized therapeutic value. Especially quail hunting. S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S • 105