Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/742011
24 • S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S years. The goal, I guess, was to see how many. It was fun, I suppose, but not as. I wasn't all that pretty anymore, all the brier scratches in my stock, and metal wear from brush and carry. I lost most of my case- colors during those years. But I never let down, never forgot who I was. "Finally, Mabe died too. He was a younger man, but he still died. Think bad of me, if you will, but I didn't mourn. Instead, I hoped, again, for the something more I had known. "Old Man Murray Hoover, locally, got me next . . . from Verdell Mabe's widow. Hoover was a notorious and clever old gun-trader from who-laid-the-rail, a Parker man to his fingertips, but, most of all, a dog man and bird hunter, who— beneath his savvy veneer—I came to find, was not entirely empty of sentiment. "Problem was, he already had a cabinet- full of Parkers, standing on their barrels so the oil would run safely away from the wood, and most of them were better than me. He hunted almost every day, but I never got to go. That was hard. I had a "D" grade Brother beside me, with all that handsome engraving, and even a double-AHE two Brothers down. was born anew. "When Dr. Talbert died, I went to live with his brother for a time. He didn't hunt either, and suddenly it was the doldrums all over again. I got pretty depressed. "But then, six months later Dr. Gentry called from Early County, Georgia, asking about me. He had always favored me when we shot together, and was able to negotiate an agreeable exchange with Boyce. So I was crated and shipped to him by rail. "I was glad to get there, because once again, I was in the scabbard on a good, smooth walking horse, behind fast- stepping pointing dogs, pulling down Bobs under the longleafs. "I remember the first morning we hunted, the first word I exclaimed: "Hallelujah!" "But damn, not seven years later, Dr. Gentry left too. Advertised in the "Shotgun News" by his daughter, I was sold to a rabbit hunter, would you believe, by the name of Verdell Mabe. Lived in the Cedar Grove Community near Asheboro, North Carolina. The year was 1951. "He treated me pretty rough, really, for a bird gun. We shot rabbits before beagles, and shot rabbits, and more rabbits, for 22 could, and hoped with all my might. "Sure enough, he dropped his apple core in his pocket, reached up and took me down. I was thrilled, for he brought me to shoulder as if I were made there. And when he levered my breech to hold my bores to the light, his hand cradled my forearm . . . and most of all . . . he did not slam me closed, like others had, but brought barrels softly to receiver and simply gentled my top lever back to place. "His name was Benjamin P. Talbert, he had a half-dozen English pointers—the best of them Tap and Bandit—and he was a dentist in New Hope. More importantly, he was a gentleman, and with it, a sportsman. We partnered for 21 years. He treated me with dignity and respect, cared for me. He had higher-grade guns in the cabinet, bespoken British pieces, but more than not, he took me. "We shot pheasant, grouse, turkey, and quail in the Keystone, but, best, several times a season during the '30s, we ventured south to the great Southern plantation belt: Lexington to Tallahassee. Shot Bobs on exclusive holdings, fancied living over the ears of a mule. My, oh, my. "For the first of two times in my life, I