Flutterball

by Robert Giles

Chuck practiced his new pitch for hours. He was always inventing something.

He called it the “Dying Swan”. My other brother called it the “Butterfly”. I remember it as the “Flutterball”.

It had a high arc like in slo-pitch softball. It was agonizingly slow. It did a little dance or jig as it descended chest high at the upper limit of the strike zone.

I may be entering deep water here, but there was something geekish about the way Chuck delivered a flutterball. He sort of tip-toed forward on the mound and held the ball in a loose slack-armed way and released it with just his fingertips. He turned his face skyward as the ball inched toward the plate.

I have to say that is the proper way to deliver a flutterball, maybe the only way. After all, Chuck invented the pitch.

I still remember the unveiling of Chuck’s new pitch in an actual game. By chance my brothers and I all were on the same team. We usually played six to a side. We only needed two neighborhood kids to round out our squad. I forget who had the honor.

The other side had the Stolar brothers, Dicky and Bobby, and Art & Bobby Floro. Rick Supak and maybe Tommy Pappas completed the opposing six.

That day it was pretty much the Giles Brothers versus the neighborhood – an alignment that may have occurred only on that one fateful day.

Six-sided baseball requires modification of the usual rules. The batting team provides the catcher – in this case someone unprotected who functions only to return the ball to the pitcher. The “no right field hitting” rule is invoked to eliminate the need for a second baseman and right fielder. (In the rare instance of a left-handed batter, the fielders shifted rightward and a “no left-field hitting” rule applied.)

Contravention of the “no right-field hitting rule” or its corollary resulted in an automatic out.

Back to the game. We were in the ninth inning and the Giles Brothers had a one or two run lead. So far Chuck had not employed the flutterball.

Just when we thought we had the game on ice, the neighborhood boys began to make a little noise. There were runners on first and second, and Dicky Stolar was coming to the plate.

Some of you may remember that Dicky lettered in three sports at Ambridge High School – baseball, basketball, and golf (I may be wrong about golf – maybe that was his younger brother, Bobby).

Anyway, to my memory Dicky Stolar (or “Rich” or “Fuzzy”) was the finest athlete to ascend from the ash of Byers Field. Art “The Hammer” Floro trails in second place (sorry, Art).

So there we were on the diamond in Byers Field, the batting team threatening, and Byersdale’s home run king at the plate. Even before high school, Dicky was an imposing figure (he was in seventh or eighth grade at the time of our game).

All of a sudden Chuck changed his delivery and threw a flutterball. Dicky swung way out in front of the pitch. Strike one.

Dicky recovered his composure by striking home plate several times with his bat.

He may have anticipated that Chuck would change up on him by showing some speed on that second pitch. If so, he miscalculated. Along came another flutterball. Another mighty swing. A second strike.

Dicky pulled his cap down on his forehead and rummaged in his pocket for a handkerchief. He stepped from the batter’s box to blow his nose.

This time he would wait as though set in concrete for that pathetic pitch to arrive in his power zone. “Patience, Strength, Discipline,” Dicky prayed silently.

In floated the pitch, fluttering softly although the air was still and breathless. A dust devil ascended as Dicky swung his bat.

The ball made a tiny “plop” somewhere behind home plate. Dicky had struck out.

A Natural Bent for History

Microsoft Word

by Robert Giles

Growing up in Byersdale, I would often look about me and ask – “What was this like a hundred years ago?” I guess I had a natural bent for history.

The view from our back porch was underwhelming – an Atlantic service station, a truck park, Jan’s Bar, and the Byersdale Hotel. If I leaned forward, I could make out the corner of the Isaly store.

There was a large billboard just on the other side of  Duss Avenue.  It obscured the view of  Byers’ Field, not that Byers’ Field was much to look at, even if it was as important as the roadside markers said. “Logstown”. “Legionville”. “The Battle of Fallen Timbers”.

Beyond Byers’ Field were the railroad tracks. They were down on the river bank where they couldn’t be seen. We could hear but not see the Pennsy. The Ohio River we could make out on a clear day when the light hit it just right. It was almost a mile off. The J&L steel mill was always there, chain-smoking  and coughing fire. At day’s end, the sun settled over the dark Aliquippa hills.

Once we watched a worker put up a new advertisement on the billboard. He used a long-handled brush (like a wide soft broom) to glue sheets of paper to the board. When all the sheets were glued in the proper arrangement, it all looked whole and formed a nice picture. The glue dried invisibly and you had to be real close to see the seams. Just like wallpaper.

The day we watched, the man with the brush was putting up an ad for a new brand of cigarette, Salem. There was a handsome couple sitting down for a picnic beside a pond, pine trees  and mountains in the background. You could almost smell the pine scent. You guessed it. They weren’t eating fried chicken – they were enjoying Salem cigarettes. Everything was clean and nice. (And mentholated.)

That billboard was  as close to Paradise as we would get, sitting on our back porch in Byersdale.

It seemed that the history of Western Pennsylvania began and ended with the French and Indian War. I learned about it at school – Braddock’s Road, George Washington, Fort Necessity, Jumonville, the Battle of Bushy Run.

Admiral Perry defeated the British fleet on Lake Erie, but that was another war, the War of 1812, and a long way from Byersdale. Lake Erie was almost in Canada.The Revolutionary War and the Civil War bypassed us entirely.

The time between the Revolutionary War and the Civil War was a big blank. Isn't that when they spent four score years quarreling about slavery when they weren't fighting about whether to have a national bank? And the Whigs were for “internal improvements” but the Democrats were against them.

Why any one would vote against “internal improvements” I couldn’t guess, but as soon as someone proposes, someone opposes. That’s just the way it is.

In sixth grade, our home room class walked down Rice Avenue  to visit “Old Economy”. That wasn’t in our text book but Mr. Scimio just wanted to have a nice walk on a warm spring day, I guess.

We learned about the Harmony Society before we went – I think there may even have been a movie that Mr. Scimio showed us. He adjusted the venetian blinds to darken the room. “Frank, switch off the lights now, please.”

The Harmonists (or is it Economites) couldn’t decide where to settle down, moving from Germany to Butler County to Indiana on the Wabash back to Beaver County within the space of twenty years. In that short period, they built three prosperous towns. It makes me tired just thinking about all that moving and constructing.

Finally they settled down in present-day Ambridge but they were celibate so they died out, proving forever and ever that socialism is harebrained and will not work.

I remember only two things from that field trip – besides Rice Avenue being the steepest hill on earth, that is. There was a building that had structural problems and the Harmonists installed iron bars and stays from wall to wall (up high out of the way) to keep the brick walls from splaying out. Very clever, practical people those Harmonists. (Wait a minute; didn’t we say they were harebrained in the previous paragraph?)

They also had this place called a grotto or cave that symbolized the inner beauty of the spirit – plain on the outside, beautiful on the inside – something like that. Anyway, we were given a big build-up - I thought it would look like the cave of Ali Baba when I got inside.

Sheesh, no way – what a letdown – to me it seemed almost as plain on the inside.

Now that I am approaching the age of wisdom, I have turned the focus of my meditation from my navel to my feet. I study my roots.

There is a wealth of resources for this, all made possible by Al Gore and his invention of the internet. Those little town centennial booklets that you could only find on obscure library shelves have been scanned and are available on Google Books.

Just yesterday, I read about the Reverend William A. Passavant, a saint of the Lutheran Church. His sainthood is commemorated every November 24^th.

The name caught my eye because so many things in my old neighborhood bear his name – all sorts of hospitals and charities – the Orphan's Home and School in Zelienople (now Glade Run Lutheran Services), the Passavant Home in Rochester (now Passavant Memorial Homes), the Passavant Hospital in Pittsburgh (now UPMC Passavant Hospital).

He also founded hospitals and charities in distant places like Chicago, Milwaukee and Mount Vernon NY.

Passavant established a Lutheran church in Rochester as well as the Christ Evangelical Lutheran Church in nearby Baden (less than a mile from my old home in Byersdale).

He was born October 9, 1821, at Zelienople and died on January 3, 1894. He was educated at Washington & Jefferson College (undergraduate) and Gettysburg College (seminary).

At the age of 18, Passavant journeyed to Old Economy. (The trip back and forth from Zelienople on horseback may have been as arduous as climbing up and down Rice Avenue.)

Here is what Passavant had to say about the view from my back porch in Byersdale --

On the opposite side of the Ohio a lofty ridge covered with oaks and pines followed the windings of the river as far as the eye could reach. Clumps of sugar maple clothed in a livery of the richest green … were scattered over this valley in every direction, while fields of grain on the uplands; often surrounded by primitive forests, presented a quiet yet beautiful scene which wanted only the painters skill to be eternalized on canvas. 

The very first field* of the Economites was used as a camp by the army of General Anthony Wayne for the whole winter previous to his expedition against the Indian tribes of the West. The field contains about ten acres and was defended on two sides by the nature of the ground; the other two were surrounded by an embankment of earth eight feet high and a ditch which are still visible. 

The amount of land owned by the society amounts to two thousand acres and without doubt is among the best on the Ohio. A large part of this is what might be called high river bottom land which runs back to the hills, and is in many places a mile in breadth. This part is all cleared and cultivated, while on the hills there are yet large tracts of woodland.

It is really a pleasure to walk over this immense plantation and see the perfection to which farming is carried. Some of the fields contain fifty or a hundred acres, and are surrounded by the best fences, and on their entire surface not a stump is to be seen. If the land is too steep for the plough, it is covered with rows of white mulberry trees to supply the silk worms with leaves. If there is danger of a run washing away, its banks are lined with willows. Should the ground prove too marshy for the purposes of agriculture, it is planted with a species of osiers for the manufacture of baskets, and a deep ravine between sand hills which would otherwise be of no value has been chosen as the pleasure ground of their herd of hogs, where they may exercise their rooting propensities to their hearts desire, without injury to the soil. 

In this manner everything is arranged, the different grains and plants are adapted to their appropriate soils; everything receives a proper degree of attention and shows what can be done by a community of common interests properly governed. The number of farmers is very large and often in harvest fifty reapers may be seen in a single field. The women who are not otherwise employed often work in the field during harvest, and with their sleeves rolled up, and broad rimmed bonnets on their heads present a very picturesque appearance.

Much attention is paid to the raising of fruit trees, and in the fall of the year every variety of apple, pear, plum, peach, quince, etc., may be had for the asking. Some of their orchards are very extensive, especially the apple which covers several hills. The trees are grafted and produce every variety from the Rambo to the juicy Pippin. 

The flock of sheep belonging to the society is very large and numbers many thousands; they are pastured by shepherds during the summer who with their dogs lead a solitary life watching their flocks.

So you see that my valley was long ago something closer to an earthly paradise than that billboard advertisement for Salem cigarettes. I've pieced together a picture of it from eyewitness accounts from old-timers like Passavant.

It wasn’t a utopia, which translated from the Greek means “no place”, but it was a genuine place of beauty and order and prosperity, notwithstanding the inevitable portion of human frailty. 
_____

To read more about Reverend Passavant, visit this link in Wikipedia.

The excerpted material authored by William A. Passavant is from the “Western Pennsylvania Historical Magazine”, Volume 4, Number 3, dated July 1921.

*The "first" field of the Economites is none other than present day Byers’ Field.

Turkey Time

Microsoft Word Illustration

by Robert Giles

Thanks to YouTube, everyone can enjoy the cluck and cackle (and gobble) of our favorite bird, the turkey. Listen to the haunting sounds of the woodlands - Turkey Sounds.

A long time ago, we were playing basketball on the court in Byers’ Field when our attention was arrested by a short, high squawk, or “putt”.

“That sounds like a turkey,” my brother said in hushed tones. We stopped dribbling and passing and shooting and listened. Sure enough, there it was again. “Putt.”

It came from the north towards Logan’s Lane. In those days, Logan’s Lane was just a narrow unpaved road that led from Duss Avenue down past Hill Cemetery* to the tracks of the Pennsy. It came to a dead end at the railroad tracks. Route 65 had not yet been cut through.

I’m not sure why Logan’s Lane was there. I suspect it provided access to a passenger depot on the Pittsburgh, Fort Wayne and Chicago Line. There is a "Logan Station" in the right spot on an 1877 map of the Ohio Valley.

We liked to pick the blackberries that grew on either side of the lane and on the grounds of Hill Cemetery, which for decades until the 70s was neglected and covered with high grass and brush. Local legend had it that the canes were fertilized by the graves of the dead. To our unsophisticated minds, that accounted for the lushness of the berries.

The lane and cemetery were also great places to pick elderberries.

So you get the picture. Byers’ Field over to Logan’s Lane and beyond was a lot wilder then than it is today. It even harbored a few turkeys.

My friend had a Russian grandfather that he called “Deedee”. (When she was alive, he called his Russian grandmother “Baba”.)

Deedee foraged all over Legionville Hollow and Byers’ Field for mushrooms (he had learned in his native Carpathia to distinguish the safe ones from the poisonous - we cautious eaters contented ourselves with the canned variety).

One day Deedee brought home something marvelous. It was a large box trap made of wood painted forest green. On the trap was a metal plate engraved with the words “Property of State Game Commission, Commonwealth of Pennsylvania”.

Of course, Deedee couldn’t read English (and maybe not Russian either), so he didn’t know he was stealing from the state. I presume he did know he was taking someone's property. I’m not sure what he wanted to do with the trap.

So what was the box trap doing out there by Logan’s Lane? Evidently, the State Game Commission had released a turkey or pheasant and had forgotten the trap (another shocking instance of government malfeasance).

We boys went in search of the turkey that had interrupted our basketball game but couldn’t spot it. Turkeys are wary of basketball players on the hunt and smart enough to elude them.

What is the point I am trying to make? Readers of my post “Small Game” were disbelieving that people actually hunted in Byers’ Field. After all, within gunshot range was a busy highway (old Route 88) and a populated village.

To those doubters, I say that not only did people hunt there; the State Game Commission stocked it for hunting. 

We heard but never saw turkeys. Pheasants we saw quite a bit. Once in a while we would flush one as we walked through high cover from the softball field up to Duss Avenue. It is astounding to see a ringneck go vertical in the air right in front of you. It has all the color and music of a rocket launch.

After a fire, we would sometimes spot the remains of a nest in the charred stubble of the field (anyone for a cooked pheasant egg?).

There were plenty of rabbits – it would have been superfluous for the Game Commission to stock rabbits. 

Every fall we could sit on our back porch and see hunters and hear the sound of gunfire from Byers’ Field. I hoped they didn’t get our turkey.
_____

*Go to Hill Cemetery for a fascinating account of the Legionville encampment, tippling Legionnaires, and General Wayne’s bombardment of Crow’s Island.

Strangers in Their Midst

by Robert  Giles

On the edge of Byers’ Field, 50 yards west of the Byersdale Isaly store, there was a basketball court. How it got there I can’t say. It was “always” there. I hope neighborhood kids are driving in for layups and sinking baskets there today.

The court was once covered with the heavy limestone slag that paved the roads in Byers’ Field. Someone had removed the heavy stones and replaced them with a much finer grade of slag, smooth enough for dribbling a ball. A pole, about 18 inches in circumference and about 12 feet high, had been erected on the north end of the court. A sheet of ¾ inch plywood had been bolted to the pole to serve as a backboard.

All in all, it was a pretty good basketball court, not as nice as the one at the playground on top of the hill in Byersdale, which had hoops on both ends. But the township had built that one with the help of contractors.

Our “bottom of the hill” basketball court didn’t require a long steep climb up Dearborn Street and it wasn’t a mud hole after a rain, even if we did have to play "half-court".

The site came ready-made for those who erected the pole. The government had bulldozed and “paved” the court and encircled it with trailers to create instant housing during World War II. There were more than a dozen such courts in Byers’ Field. During the war, men came to Byersdale from far and wide to work at jobs in the A.M. Byers plant, then the "world's largest" manufacturer of wrought iron.

The courts were laid out like suburban cul-de-sacs, minus the green lawns, concrete pavement, and split-level houses.

I don’t remember seeing trailers there when I was a boy. By then the housing and the people who lived there were long gone. There were just empty courts and empty streets.

Byers’ Field sure looked like an abandoned neighborhood. I asked what all the roads were for. People didn’t have a lot to say.

I came to understand that migrants, mostly "foreigners", lived there during the war. After the war, they had gone back home. End of story.

It seemed like everyone must have been working and playing so hard that they scarcely noticed the strangers in their midst.

I wonder what those strangers did in the evenings and weekends. Did they attend church, send and receive mail, patronize the stores, drink with their friends in local bars, dance, sing, have a life outside of Byers' Field?

Did some of the men bring or send for their wives and children?

Perhaps it was a group of those iron makers who erected our basketball court. They may have enjoyed a game of hoops in the evenings.

Some time ago I chanced across A History of A.M. Byers Company by a fellow former Byersdale resident, Wm. J. Bowan --

“The A.M. Byers Company owned extensive vacant acreage east and north of its plant. The company leased the north plot to the U.S. Government who then placed 450 trailer homes on wheels on this site to accommodate shortages of living space for the area's defense workers. The quarters were equipped with running water, electric power, butane tanks and underground sewage piping.


Most of these defense workers (migrants) were brought in from Mexico, Portugal, Cuba and American Appalachia. Immediately after the end of the war, these workers were laid off. They returned to their homelands loaded with American War Bonds and cash. It can well be assumed that a low, unknown, percentage stayed on in this area. They scattered here and there blending in to various communities.”

Turkey Bowl Weapon

Microsoft Word Illustration

by Robert Giles

I remember the day Roy Schwartz moved into our neighborhood. He smiled at us from the back window of his dad’s car, his nose pressed against the glass. His face was red and freckled.

That first afternoon, we invited Roy to play German ball. We gave him the honor of the first at bat. Roy hit a wicked liner so hard it knocked down one of the overhead wires that crossed the street. We scattered in all directions but in fact, there was no danger of electrocution. It was a telephone wire.

Mrs. Sedakis borrowed her neighbor's phone to call the police. A patrolman arrived and put up a road block. In the meantime, someone with more sense called Bell Telephone. A truck arrived and a lineman reattached the wire to the house where it had been knocked loose.

Mrs. Sedakis wanted to put us in Allencrest for knocking her phone out of service, but the police chief ruled it an accident and assured her that she wouldn't get a bill. The lineman concurred. I guess Bell Telephone had so much money it couldn't be bothered.

We reconvened in the Schwartz’s backyard. Roy's mom made us a pitcher of Kool-Aid. We raised a cup to our new friend.

Roy Schwartz was a large boy for his age. He was not only big; he was mature in other ways too. Roy started shaving when he was thirteen and began to develop male pattern baldness at sixteen. I wish I could say that he was a well-rounded person, but Roy had difficulty in school.

What an addition to the neighborhood he was - someone big and strong, yet pliant and eager to please.

We realized right away that Roy gave us a powerful weapon against the “top of the hill” in the annual Thanksgiving Turkey Bowl.

Roy had inherited one of those old-fashioned leather football helmets that fit snug to the head. Unlike the fiberglass ones that made heads appear larger, it seemed to make Roy's head shrink.
Still, Roy cut an impressive figure on the gridiron - heavy shoes, cotton pants, and sleeveless shirt, a giant's body and a small head. 

He reminded us of those rams the medieval armies employed to batter down the castle gates.

Roy was not a fast runner but once he got going, he was relentless. The only way our opponents could stop him was to gang tackle him at the line of scrimmage.

That first year we trounced the “top of the hill” team so badly that the next year they recruited a quarterback from the second-team at Geneva College. The outcome of that game is still under protest.

We weren't creative enough to nickname Roy “The Bus”. We settled on “The Horse”.

He tolerated the nickname as long as it was pronounced with the right inflection. If he detected so much as a hint of ridicule, you were “in for it”. One day Roy grabbed a baseball bat and chased Jimmy Dinnerlein all over Byers' Field. It was a good thing for Jimmy that he was fleet-footed. He could never manage to convey the proper respect when he addressed Roy as “Horse”.

One day Roy bet my brother that he could drink two gallons of water in one sitting. 

Later we found out that drinking too much water too quickly can upset the body’s electrolyte balance and lead to death. We had no knowledge of this when Roy offered his wager. We thought the worst that could happen was that Roy would get a stomach ache and possibly throw up. 

We had two one-gallon jugs from Isaly’s. We kept one in reserve until Roy drained the first, then we handed him the second one.

Roy swallowed the second gallon and won the bet. Roy didn’t get sick or throw up or go into a coma and die. He belched loudly once and had to make a lengthy visit to the bathroom.

Another time we went over to Roy’s house after school to watch television. Roy reached in his pants pocket and couldn’t find his key. His mom was visiting out-of-town. Roy’s dad worked at Westinghouse and didn’t get home until later.

We were locked out. What to do? Roy had a good idea. Why not break in?

Roy pointed to his bedroom window. He could pry it open with his pocket knife, but first we had to boost him onto one of the shutters alongside the lower level window. From there he could clamber onto the roof and jimmy the window. Once he got the window open, it would be a simple matter to climb inside and unlock the door.

We boosted with all our might. Roy was a heavy lift. Finally, he gained a toehold on top of the shutter and grasped the rain gutter for support.

Roy straightened up and put his full weight on the shutter. He reached toward the roof, pocket knife in hand. Suddenly the shutter pulled away beneath him. He grabbed the gutter with his free hand but that gave way too.

Everything crashed onto the porch, the shutter, Roy, the rain gutter, and the break-in tool. All in that order.

The front door of the Schwartz house swung wide. Minutes before, Mr. Schwartz had pulled into the back drive, entered through the garage door, and hurried to investigate the commotion on the front porch. 

Roy’s dad looked like one of those Viking warriors who go berserk. He took Roy by the ear and pulled him into the house. We decided to quietly leave.

For a couple of days, we didn’t see Roy at all. Then we learned through the grapevine that he wasn't allowed to pal with us any more. We were “bad influences”.

Wasn't it Roy's idea to break into the house? Why couldn't Mr. Schwartz use the front door instead of sneaking through the back? Why did they put the blame on us?

It was a good thing that parents never remember anything for longer than a week.Time would heal this breach. 

We laid low. On the eighth day, the heat was off. Roy “The Horse” Schwartz was loose again. 

Small Game

by Robert Giles

Pete Dinnerlein lived on the edge of Legionville Hollow just above the path we took into the woods. He liked to hunt. He had a beagle named Cody.

It was a July morning. My brothers and I were on our way to the other side of the hollow to pick blackberries.

I stopped at Cody's to say hello. As usual, he was chained to his doghouse.

In his fretful roundabouts, Cody had trampled away every blade of grass in the circle circumscribed by his chain.

In winter, he had a lawn of mud and ice. In spring, the lawn was merely mud. In midsummer, it was dry as dirt, which in fact it was. It was autumn that Cody lived for.

I didn't insult Cody by trying to pet him or scratch his ear. He was a working dog, and proud to be one. Pete had cautioned that affection would take the edge off his hunting instincts.

Cody made a sudden u-turn with his head and neck to attack an itch at the base of his tail.

His tormentor vanquished, he turned to me, as if to ask, "Why don't you hurry along and catch up with your brothers?" Cody let out a sneeze.

Suddenly autumn had come and Cody's long stretch of unemployment was over. Pete took him down into the hollow to exercise. Cody splashed through the creek. He chased squirrels up trees. He snapped at a dragonfly. He was a puppy once again. Rejuvenated. Reborn. Ready for the hunt.

Pete and his dog crossed Duss Avenue near the Legionville Bridge. Pete wore a red plaid jacket, green pants, and an orange cap. Cody, as usual, wore his tan and cream coat.

I ran to catch up. I didn't know if Pete would let me tag along - he never had before. Maybe I was old enough now.

Pete shouldered his shotgun. "OK, Bobby, you can come along. But do as I say. I would hate to accidentally blow your head off."

I said OK.

We walked along the roads of limestone slag that led through Byers' Field. There were a few stunted trees. Each one seemed to contain a red-wing blackbird, defending his territory. As soon as we stopped trespassing on one blackbird, we seemed to offend another. "Scold, scold. Keep out. Get going."

We crossed the Byers' railroad siding just at the top of the wooden steps leading down to the tracks of the "Pennsy". Beyond was the Ohio River. (The final stretch of Route 65 had not as yet been cut through to spoil the view.)

We didn't go down the steps. Instead we walked along the siding north toward Baden.

Cody had run off ahead. He stopped and snuffled the air on both sides of the track. Then he was off into the high grass to the east, his shoulders low and his tail erect. We watched the tip of his tail until he disappeared entirely.

The air was crisp, the sun was bright, a 20-gauge, a good dog, warm clothes, rabbits in the grass. Who could ask for more?

"He's on to something." Cody had let out a single sharp bark. Pete added evenly, "He'll turn it toward us in just a second. Stay back. Get out of the way. Now!"

About 40 yards away, a rabbit burst from the weeds. After him came Cody. He no longer wore an air of intent concentration. Somewhere in the grass, he had exchanged it for an air of noisy exhilaration.

He was level-headed enough to give Pete room for a shot. He had felt the sting of shotgun pellets once too often.

I heard a bang from Pete's gun. The rabbit tumbled toward us, moving forward even in death. He lay at our feet.

Quickly, Pete wielded his knife. In a moment, the insides of the rabbit lay on the ground, steaming in the cold air.

The dog had pined for this reward. He had earned it. Now it was his. The steam vanished.

Pete put the gutted rabbit in his bag and tied it to his belt. By then Cody was off in the brush looking for seconds.

One dead rabbit, one happy dog, one fine morning in small game season.