hunting hat camera
hunting hat camera
At first, Shannon did not care to hunt pheasant, shooting, and the common pheasant, he could not tell a male pheasant from a female one to be frank, nor cared. Over there was a big difference, the male's bright colors and ornaments such as wattles and long tails, the more they were more larger than the female. He learned that they usually eat seeds and insects, mostly. And you never saw men raising children. On the other hand, Gus's brother Shannon them fired, not only for food but for sport during the fall months, in dry cornfields, Minnesota, about twenty miles outside the city limits of St. Paul.
In November the morning they could hear the sounds of beatings wings, and the hounds hunt pheasants, converging on them, somewhere in the cornfields. Sometimes old Gus O'Day, I build a box for pheasants to get trapped in, and check the results the next day, the pheasant would search for seeds, and find the frame will enclose the bird.
Shannon standing just behind his brother as if he had been standing when his brother shot the first pheasant, Shannon never seen slaughtered with his shotgun, and with the first shot, like a snake pheasant fell from heaven, and when he touched down, he had a cold heart. It seemed to Shannon, they never came into view they were right there, as if his brother ordered them to be there, and they were there. Looking almost like a ghost, condensed in his fields of corn, not only on the soil removal, but running over his head, faster than a deer, soaring high, like wooden flight, even in the dark morning light, more like sparrows that big rocking chair unbalanced heavy bellied birds with thin heads and tails like hairy rats, or wolves.
The female, brown as the muddy fields of corn, has not been as attractive to the eye as the male, "said Shannon.
"Now, Gus O'Day said:" … but, then pull rapidly but first home on the trigger, as you learned in the army …!" It was a ring-carved pheasant, perhaps down from South Dakota, got lost in the cornfields Minnesota. Mabel, wife of Gus, often roasted the birds for dinner Sunday, with potatoes and vegetables, and a sort of pudding. She had a place in a baking oven at about 325 F, and perhaps even lower, so that juice inside the cut would not escape, or they can escape before it finished cooking.
Shannon does not remember not the shot he did, he just shot the gun, he never even heard the shot, nor feel the shock of the gun to the chest. His brother was in the late sixties, and Shannon in the late fifties, when he stood on the pheasant, where she was in the cornfields humid air as dead as dead can be, some automatic pulse is still trembling boy and Jerk, with Gus, near Shannon.
"It is not Never Goin 'to wake up, Shannon, he's goin' to be roasted tomorrow," said Gus.
Gus put a knife the throats of two birds, and when he leaned over to cut through the collar, his hands soaked in warm blood and wiped them with a damp tucked inside his belt he wore, then he called his dog, then both men and dogs and pheasants with Gus, returned to the farm.
"Did I?" Asked Shannon.
"You did everything well," said Gus.
This was one of the last times, Gus and Shannon would do something together forever. Gus said his brother, his hat and coat well on a snuff box in his coat pocket, and Shannon with a pint of brown glass of whiskey in his pocket, pulling, shiny and bright and drink half down, and putting the other half to Gus, who is well.
"People," Gus said: "We were close to pheasant shooting here for a century, I swear! "nails in be bloody.
"I'm Goin 'to miss pheasant hunting," laughed Gus. Then he stopped laughing, looking at the blood on both sides of his hand, "except that part, he said.
This is true, Shannon thought. And after his brother died in 1957 of a heart attack, He had not forgotten the first time he stood in the fields of corn, do not drink, but the shooting of his first pheasant, and sometimes even went to the fields, as if he had been fired, and watched the empty fields crowded with strong valid, long-tailed pheasants.
No: 551/12-2-2009/Â • A •
See Dennis’ web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com
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