scrape on the granite boulders some farmer had pulled out of the soil a hundred or more years ago. The young trees encroaching on the old wagon ruts showed that this had been pasture for cows or sheep as little as twenty-five years ago. Mac whined and pressed against the cage door as Elsie shut off the engine and came around to the back to snap on his leash.
A sudden silence fell as he leaped to the ground and began to snuffle around. Birds that had been advertising their availability flitted away. Elsie wanted to get Mac farther from the road before she released him, in order to keep distractions to a minimum and to prevent an accident. “Mac, come,” she ordered. He sniffed a promising pile of debris one more time before turning to follow her up the wagon track.
The ruts led uphill, away from a small stream that gushed over rocks and exposed roots. Mac strained at the lead and got himself tangled in brush and branches every couple of minutes. After a ten-minute walk, they scrambled over another stone wall and into an abandoned apple orchard. This part of New Hampshire was rife with them, remnants of a once-thriving industry that eventually died because of the famous Yankee independence: where Washington State apple-growers banded together to promote their crop, stubborn New Englanders tried to go it alone. As a result, they lost out on volume discounts from the manufacturers of the necessary pesticides, and they lost out in terms of the power that comes from the united voices of many growers. They couldn’t or wouldn’t band together for their own good, so most of them went under. Literally under, in many cases—what had been orchard was often turned into housing lots, with names like “Orchard Row” or “Appletree Estates.”
On this land, however, the orchard had just been allowed to fall into ruin. Grapes and brambles dragged some of the old trees into hummocks of green, providing shelter for birds and small mammals. Others, their once-pruned limbs thick with water-sprouts, stood lost among a riot of descendants. Deer had created paths that meandered among the trees. Elsie had to admonish Mac when he wanted to roll in their droppings. After a while, she came across the narrow lane the landowner mowed several times a year and followed it across a hay meadow and down into a wood.
Here at last she let Mac off the leash, holding his muzzle in her hand while she gave him his orders. “Mac, find a bird,” she repeated several times, hoping he would remember his lessons. “Good boy. Move out! Find a bird!” She let go and gestured him ahead. The dog leaped away, head down and docked tail wagging.
He found some interesting scent, paused, and fell into the classic point position. Elsie hurried up to him, patted him without saying a word, and went to her knee beside him to see what had his attention. All she could spot was an orange salamander wriggling its way along the forest floor. Mac whined and nudged her hand. She raised a warning finger and refused to give him a treat. “Find a bird,” she ordered again, rising and sending him off.
This went on for nearly an hour. Mac found more deer droppings, a pile of fox scat, several frogs, and an empty eggshell. Elsie responded, “Leave it!” to each of them. She snapped the leash back on him and they started back toward the hay meadow. They picked up the mowed lane again and followed it where it led alongside another of the ubiquitous stone walls, under the shade of old oaks and sugar maples. The day grew warmer. Elsie was thinking about returning to the car when Mac came to a sudden stop and pointed. Taking every precaution to make no noise, she poked at the tufts of grass with her walking stick. The dog quivered.
“Whoa,” she ordered under her breath and poked some more.
Mac couldn’t stand it anymore. He sprang ahead into the young grass at the foot of the wall, pulling the leash out of her hand. A small brown bird erupted from her nest. She started to
A sudden silence fell as he leaped to the ground and began to snuffle around. Birds that had been advertising their availability flitted away. Elsie wanted to get Mac farther from the road before she released him, in order to keep distractions to a minimum and to prevent an accident. “Mac, come,” she ordered. He sniffed a promising pile of debris one more time before turning to follow her up the wagon track.
The ruts led uphill, away from a small stream that gushed over rocks and exposed roots. Mac strained at the lead and got himself tangled in brush and branches every couple of minutes. After a ten-minute walk, they scrambled over another stone wall and into an abandoned apple orchard. This part of New Hampshire was rife with them, remnants of a once-thriving industry that eventually died because of the famous Yankee independence: where Washington State apple-growers banded together to promote their crop, stubborn New Englanders tried to go it alone. As a result, they lost out on volume discounts from the manufacturers of the necessary pesticides, and they lost out in terms of the power that comes from the united voices of many growers. They couldn’t or wouldn’t band together for their own good, so most of them went under. Literally under, in many cases—what had been orchard was often turned into housing lots, with names like “Orchard Row” or “Appletree Estates.”
On this land, however, the orchard had just been allowed to fall into ruin. Grapes and brambles dragged some of the old trees into hummocks of green, providing shelter for birds and small mammals. Others, their once-pruned limbs thick with water-sprouts, stood lost among a riot of descendants. Deer had created paths that meandered among the trees. Elsie had to admonish Mac when he wanted to roll in their droppings. After a while, she came across the narrow lane the landowner mowed several times a year and followed it across a hay meadow and down into a wood.
Here at last she let Mac off the leash, holding his muzzle in her hand while she gave him his orders. “Mac, find a bird,” she repeated several times, hoping he would remember his lessons. “Good boy. Move out! Find a bird!” She let go and gestured him ahead. The dog leaped away, head down and docked tail wagging.
He found some interesting scent, paused, and fell into the classic point position. Elsie hurried up to him, patted him without saying a word, and went to her knee beside him to see what had his attention. All she could spot was an orange salamander wriggling its way along the forest floor. Mac whined and nudged her hand. She raised a warning finger and refused to give him a treat. “Find a bird,” she ordered again, rising and sending him off.
This went on for nearly an hour. Mac found more deer droppings, a pile of fox scat, several frogs, and an empty eggshell. Elsie responded, “Leave it!” to each of them. She snapped the leash back on him and they started back toward the hay meadow. They picked up the mowed lane again and followed it where it led alongside another of the ubiquitous stone walls, under the shade of old oaks and sugar maples. The day grew warmer. Elsie was thinking about returning to the car when Mac came to a sudden stop and pointed. Taking every precaution to make no noise, she poked at the tufts of grass with her walking stick. The dog quivered.
“Whoa,” she ordered under her breath and poked some more.
Mac couldn’t stand it anymore. He sprang ahead into the young grass at the foot of the wall, pulling the leash out of her hand. A small brown bird erupted from her nest. She started to
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