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Yes, we had to patch the holes in our socks. But who needed all those fancy clothes in the country anyway? In a way we lived on a huge estate. The school owned about ninety acres of forest in which we could romp. In addi- tion we could pretty well wander onto anyone else’s property anytime, and no one would get upset.
We hunted rabbit, squirrel and quail like British aristocrats, only wearing overalls, not those ornate English hunting suits. Dad gave me a BB gun and a pump .22 rifle, or I’d borrow his shotguns. We’d be hiking in some old field that had grown over and my dog Joe would spot a movement and point. We’d catch up, get ready and command: “Go Joe.” Joe would run at the birds, they’d noisily fly out, and we’d shoot them. If you hit a bird twenty feet away with a 12-gauge shot gun it would be blown to pieces. So you could have time to aim and shoot the bird at a further distance. With a 20-gauge you had to shoot quicker for the shot was smaller and the spread less concentrated. There were no Dick Cheney moments. No one shot anybody.
The new Methodist preacher came to town and went hunting with a church member. “This field isn’t baited?” asked
