The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition Quotes

“Why hunt birds? The simple answer is that nothing, absolutely nothing, beats watching a pair of pointers cover a picturesque piece of ground in a workmanlike manner and slamming on brakes to a stylish point. Or an even better answer might be that nothing beats admiring your pointers as they precisely handle a running covey. This tableau, immediately followed by the feel of a fine double shotgun brought into play and accompanied by the thunderous sound of the covey flushing, is an experience without equal. There may be a few things I haven't tried, but nothing I have attempted, seen, or read about even comes close.
- Why Hunt Birds? By Dr. Joseph C. Greenfield, Jr”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“Suddenly the scene is frozen for you. The mental camera clicks with Spook mouthin’ his retrieve, and Polly chasin’ a cripple through the blackberry bushes, and Buck tenderly handin’ Pete one of his two kills. And the whole thing is etched on your memory like one of the frames in a slide-projector, full color. Dark green lob-lolly pines, backing golden strawfield, brown blobs of hunters, white setters, sky now dolomite blue, and cottontufts of clouds just touched with slanting sunshine.

The day goes on, and there’s a fullness in it. The warmth of good companions, the steady, not-too-perfect dog work, the high excitement of the search, the pleasant lull between the points.
- A Letter to My Cousin By David H. Henderson”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“Frankly, however, I do not agree with pseudo-idealistic blurbings which sigh that starry-eyed straying through scented countrysides is ample teward for a birdless gunner. If one’s mind is receptive to the beauties of frosted pumpkins and vivid sunsets beyond purpling ridges, so much the better. But any hard-going, intelligent shot has a right to fruitful field expectancy. In a vast majority of us lurks an urge for action an ear for trigger music, and a nose for skillet savor. When those blessings, are decently eamed, good lick and amen!"
- Amid Whirring Wings By Nash Buckingham”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“The man scuffs his boot. The lead dog switches his snout and points it downward. The man says the old cliché: “This is it.” He kicks, and the world erupts around him. The noise has something of the sound of an exploding landmine, something of the rapid belch of an Oerlikon 20 millimeter. It is otherwise indescribable.

Small birds burst from the ground. They take off in all directions. They are traveling at more than 40 miles an hour, and they present a target as large as a big orange. If they are to be killed they must be killed before they have traveled 60 yards, and if the cover is heavy they may need to be shot within 20 yards. They may have to be shot from the hip, or off the biceps, or even off the nose.

First, though, the gunner must select a bird from the thundering mass of rocketing fowl, because the man who shoots into the brown takes home no meat. A split-second selection must be made. The quail comes into the eye, the gun goes under the eye, the trigger is pressed, and if the man is good the bird drops in a shower of feathers. If the man is very good, he then switches to another bird, which he selects from the speeding gang, and fires again. If he is very, very good, another bird drops.
- The Brave Quail By Robert Ruark”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“A biscuit eater is an ornery dog. He won't hunt anything except his own biscuits. Ang he'll suck eggs and steal chickens and run coons and jump rabbits. To a bird dog man, a biscuit eater is the lowest form of animal life. Strangers in Mississippi often are puzzled by the expression until natives, who usually eat biscuits instead of light bread, explain that a biscuit eater is a no 'count hound that isn't good for anything except to hunt his meat and biscuits.
- The Biscuit Eater By James Street”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“When the covey flushes, if possible, the hunter should try to kill the first bird off the ground. If the bird doesn’t fall, shoot again. On the other, hand, if the bird does go down and the hunter feels compelled to shoot again, he has plenty of time to pick out a second bird. Good hunters avoid shooting into the middle of a covey. They pick out birds on the periphery, The scarcity of wild quail makes it mandatory not to shoot into a covey and risk wounding several birds. - Shooting Quail
- A Primer By Dr Joseph C. Greenfield, Jr.”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“A bird hunter should consider quail as having the attributes of a gentleman unwillingly participating in the sport. The quail deserves every courtesy, including that of a clean kill. It should go without saying that quail must be shot only while on the wing. Ground shooting is the moral equivalent of stealing from the church collection plate . .. or worse. - Shooting Quail
- A Primer By Dr Joseph C. Greenfield, Jr.”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“In fact, it’s purely my own personal belief that the nearest approach to Heaven on earth—and I don’t mean to be sacrilegious—_;, to be up on a good horse behind a brace of good dogs in the red-clayed pine-clad hills and sedge fields of Mississippi.
- Florida Bobs By Horace Lytle”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“Do you ever feel bad when you kill one, Grandpa?”

“Not bad, Willie Boy, just a little sad sometimes. Dying ain't q bad thing. It’s just part of living. Just one of the stages. Sometimes | miss folks that are gone, just like I’ll miss this little fella. You got to understand that life is important to every living thing because his own life is all that he knows. On the other hand, livin’ and dyin’ are all a part of something a lot bigger. Something that only the Creator knows. This little quail may have died, but he’ll be replaced by others of his kind if we do our part. And they'll be smarter and wiser and better adapted to live. And we'll all have done our part in the grand scheme.

“Humans can’t eat dirt, so something has to be killed so that we can eat and live. You can live on vegetables alone, if you want to, but it’s a mighty poor livin’. I tried it once when I was in college, an’ it ain’t anything I want to try again. Felt like I was starving all the time. And I still had to kill some other living thing to live. Some of us, the ones who are close to the earth, prefer to do our own killin’ rather than paying somebody else to do it for us. We hunt. Everybody's got to make his own decision about that.
- A Small Southern Tale By Bob Matthews”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“For a covey dog, give me a pointer—stamina, dash, derring-do. For a singles dog, give me a setter—patience, thoroughness, precision. Just one man’s experience, and if it doesn’t jibe with yours don’t sue me for it.
- The Old Maid By Havilah Babcock”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“Jim said his only objection to setters for Florida is not their long hair—because that soon thins out down there—but that they insist on “winding” birds, whereas the pointers learn to trail them.
- Florida Bobs By Horace Lytle”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“When speed, range, and stamina are aligned with brilliant bird sense and handling response, the yardstick of bird dog greatnes, has been applied by judgment. But what counts with the average chap is his dog’s reaction to such a code of training and companionship. It, understanding of what they are out to enjoy together. In so many words, mutual enjoyment of a day’s gunning. My taste, and I'll wager that of many Bob Whiters reading this, rung to a big, hard-bitten pointer or setter—great-chested, high-headed, long-striding—from a well-bred strain of country giants with verve, hardihood, and courage that blazes the sedge and leaves smoke in the hollows. Fellows not overly friendly but with a magnificent sense of understanding and loyalty. Fellows that stride up to a weed patch, trusting high noses for an instant diagnosis. Dogs that spared pace across pastures and then turned loose like coiled springs when their pads regripped bird country. Dogs that cast in reluctantly at nightfall, with vinegar enough left to fight like wildcats of shake a few curs along the quarter's lane.
- Amid Whirring Wings By Nash Buckingham”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“Aside from its bearing, one way or another, on field trial technique, the average quail hunter (or any other type, for that matter) needs and delights in a prompt, tender retriever, regardless of breed. The daring, finished retriever brings a friendly kinship to the gunning theme. Faithful service, understandingly rendered, wins everlasting affection. Many and many a dead bird is found. And, equally important to game restoration, countless cripples are brought to bag. The chap who fails to cherish and reward his dog for tackling thorns or dangerous ice and water simply lacks humanity and sportsmanship. Have you ever sat late before a low-burning log fire and recalled how the noble animal at your feet risked his life so cheerfully for your fun? If so, then you and I share a sentiment worth owning.
- Amid Whirring Wings By Nash Buckingham”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“Boy,” he said, “I will tell you a very wise thing, If a man is really intelligent, there's practically nothing a good dog can’t teach him. But a dumb man can’t learn anything from a smart dog, while a dumb dog can occasionally learn something from a smart man. Remember that."
- Old Dogs and Old Men Smell Bad By Robert Ruark”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“Each man builds his dog in his own image, but the definition of a good dog, like the definition of a good man, is one who knows and respects the bobwhite. No sincere hunter will overshoot a covey. No good dog will flush a covey until the hunter is at his side. No good dog will encroach on another's point. A smart dog knows more than any man about the likeliest spot to find his quarry. No good man or good dog is happy to leave a wounded bird unfound. No good man hogs the best shot, as no good dog is disrespectful of the rights of his hunting companion. Altogether, the quail manages to bring out a great deal of fineness in both dogs and men.
- The Brave Quail By Robert Ruark”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“I don't know what to do, Mr. Hilton, I cain’t figure out where to shoot!”

“Well, suh, you done jus’ solve yo’ own problem, den. See, shootin’ ain’t much of a thankin’ thang. Iss a doin’ thang, See Lucy ober dar? She ain't thankin’ bout what she gon’ do next. Her lil’ andimal brain just do it. Sumpin’ in her just feel what to do an’ where to go. You got a andimal brain, too. An’ if you jus’ let it go, it'll show you where ta shoot. You jus quit thankin’ and keep on shootin’. Puddy soon it'll all wuk out. It jus’ take a lil’ while.”

It was so, too, because Hilton said it was. And before long June Bailey was known far and wide as a child prodigy; “a shootin’ fool, if there ever was one.”
- A Small Southern Tale By Bob Matthews”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“When a covey flushes, most people are seized by temporary insanity and do things they later vehemently deny having done. Assuming vou have been killed, you won't be in a position to refute their versions. Especially dangerous is shooting at singles the dog hasn’t pointed. For example, a bird flushing between two hunters and flying to the rear is always best left for another day.

More advice: If your partner shoots at a bird flying over your head, depart. Leave the scene. Run away Don’t even wait for your partial deafness to recede. Your companion is a trigger happy madman who may add yon to his trophy collection. - Shooting Quail
- A Primer By Dr Joseph C. Greenfield, Jr.”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“I'd rather not recall the incident,” the parson demurred. “In a way, it brings up unpleasant memories. Fact is, gentlemen, that old blufter caused me to deviate from the high regard for truth which wearers of my cloth are supposed to exemplify, and perhaps the story had better remain untold.”

“You mean a dog made you tell a lie?” hopefully asked Wes.

“Wes, you are such a literalist!” chided the parson. “I said he caused me to deviate. In other words, to fall into a voluntary verbal inexactitude.”

“A voluntary verbal inexactitude,” repeated Rick, smacking his lips over the edifying phrase. “If that ain’t a masterpiece. The next time anybody calls mea liar..."
- The Parson Lied By Havilah Babcock”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“Some people step into their backyards to shoot quail; others spend thousands of dollars annually for the same privilege. But they all share one defect of character: All quail shooters are abject liars. I know, for | have been lying steadily about quail and bird dogs since I was 8, and got physically sick from excitement when I killed my first one.

The quail shooter’s mind works roughly like this:

They aren't making the same kind of cartridges anymore, because when you point them at the bird the bird won’ drop. Obviously something is wrong with the powder... The sun was in my eyes... The damn bird flew around a branch just as I shot.

The dogs have lost their sense of smell... . The rabbit hounds ran up all the quail... One of the other hunters was in the way, or I would have killed two... It was getting too dark to shoot with safety.

All the birds got up wild, ahead of the dogs . . . I slipped and fell... I had a headache and my timing was off... When I was going good after the first two coveys, we couldn't find any more for an hour and I cooled off.

The safety on my gun jammed ... The little single dog won't backstand a point any more... The woods were too thick... The birds wouldn't hold to a point.

These are the things you tell yourself. You tell other people that you only used half as many shells as you really used, and then you say that you had to run down a couple of wounded birds and shoot some more.’
- The Brave Quail By Robert Ruark”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“It is difficult, very hard, to try to explain what a boy feels when he sees the dogs sweeping the browned peafields, or skirting the edges of the gallberry bays, or crisscrossing the fields of yellow, withered corn shocks, running like racehorses with their heads high and their tails whipping. And then that moment, after nearly a year, of the first dog striking the first scent, and the excitement communicating to the other dogs, and all hands crowding in on the act—the trailers trailing, the winders sniffing high, but slow now, and the final eggshell-creeping, the tails going feverishly and the bellies low to the ground, presaging a point.

Then the sudden freeze, then the slight uncertainty, then ja minor change of course, and then the swift, dead-sure cock of head, which says plainly the bird is here, boss, right under my nose, and now it’s all up to you.
- November Was Always the Best By Robert Ruark”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“What's your idea of November?” he asked, his eyes half-closed.

I wanted to tell him that it was mostly the opening of the bird season, and the Thanksgiving holidays, the persimmons wrinkled and ripe on the trees, when the weather was real nice, and it was hog-killing time in the country, and the pumpkins looked yellow and jolly in the fields, and the sun set good and red, and a lot of other things, but I couldn’t manage to squeeze it all out because I had no way with words.

“The bird season,” I said.
- November Was Always the Best By Robert Ruark”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“If there is a broad explanation for the fascination of quail shooting, it must be that no man can bet on just how good he’ll be on any given day. The challenge of bird to man is permanent. You will catch a full night's sleep, find perfect shooting the next day, and miss everything that flies. You can get drunk as an owl, sit up all night, fly a plane from dawn until noon, and with a bellyful of butterflies kill all that rustles. My personal record of 15 out of 18 shots was set on a basis of no sleep at all for two nights, due to work and travel, with a splitting headache and hands that shook like maraca gourds. Recently I had 11 in the bag with 13 shots. We couldn't find bird No. 12, and this so upset my timing that it took me 22 shots to get the other four quail. And we had to chase the last one to death. - The Brave Quail By Robert Ruark”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“At this moment a blood-pressure estimate would bust the machine that takes it. Your heart is so loud it sounds like a pile driver. There is something in your throat about the size of a football, and your lips are dry from the temperature you're running, which is maybe just under 110 degrees Fahrenheit.

You are looking straight ahead of the dog—never down at the ground—and you are carrying your shotgun slanted across your chest the stock slightly cocked under your elbow. Nothing happens. The dog creeps forward another six yards, and you come up behind him when he freezes again. This time he’s looking right down at his forefeet, and when you walk past him he jumps and the world blows up.

The world explodes, and a billion bits of it fly out in front of you, tiny brown bits with the thunder of love in each wing. They go in all directions—right, left, behind you, over your head, sometimes straight at you, sometimes straight up before they level. Then a miracle happens.

Out of these billion bits you choose one bit and fire, and if the bit explodes in a cloud of feathers you choose another bit and fire again, and if this bit also explodes you break your gun swiftly and load, figuring maybe there’s a lay bird and you can turn to the Old Man with a grin, and when he says, “How many?” you can answer, “Three.” More likely you’ll answer, “One” or “None.”’ - November Was Always the Best By Robert Ruark”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“Roughly speaking, the period when bevies of bobwhites were found in great abundance over a goodly portion of the American landscape embraced a period from early in the 20th century into the late 1950s or early 1960s. In retrospect, we can readily perceive the circumstances that produced an incredible bounty of the saucy little patrician of peafield cormers and briar-infested fencerows. All were, in one way or another, habitat related, and all have vanished like milkweed spores caught in September thermals.

It was a time of sharecroppers and small farmers, folks who worked the land by hand and with teams of horses or mules. The concept of “clean farming” was both impractical and unknown, and these staunch sons of the soil were also practical conservationists who routinely left field edges and ditch banks in an overgrown state. They allowed worn-out land to revert to broomsedge and pines, and the practice of leaving peafield corners unharvested was commonplace. Raptors were shot on sight, with every hawk being deemed a “chicken” hawk. Furbearing nest predators—'’possums, ’coons, skunks, and foxes—were trapped and hunted for food or fur. Serpents, except for black snakes, which were prized because they kept rodent populations under control around corncribs, were not only killed; they were displayed on fences as a sort of message. Coyotes were at that point unknown over most of the South, the heartland of the noble quail and home of the strongest traditions associated with the bird, Foxes weren't just hunted; they were exterminated. In other words, an area encompassing tens of millions of acres was overseen by an army of unofficial, unpaid, unheralded, yet highly effective gamekeepers.”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition