The Dorking Rooster-Catcher

Back in the 1950s, telegrams and long-distance calls usually meant trouble. We got one of each on a quiet Thursday evening in October 1955, when I was 13. They were the opening guns of our first and only day of hunting with an Englishman.
The telegram was delivered just as Mom, Dad and I were sitting down to supper in the kitchen of our big old house on River Road near Manitowoc, Wisconsin. A taxi pulled up, and the driver honked the horn.
Dad took his pipe from the counter and followed Jeff and Nip, our beagles, to the front of the house. The driver walked up to the porch carrying a yellow envelope.
"Western Union," he said. "That'll be a dol-lar." Dad took a single from his wallet and found a 50-cent piece among the keys and pipe tools in his pocket. Fifty cents was a good tip in 1955.
Back in the kitchen, Dad slit the envelope with his pocketknife. Mom and I waited, barely breathing, expecting the worst. Dad read the narrow strips of paper pasted to the telegraph form. "Well," he said, "don't get excited; everybody's still alive. But we're going to have company for the weekend."
Mom and I looked at the telegram. It was a marvel of economy from the New York office of the company Dad worked for.
"PERCIVAL PERKINS LONDON ARR FRI FOUR THIRTY PM C&NW MANITOWOC EXTEND HOSP JONES NY," it said.
Dad translated. "Old man Jones says a guy named Perkins from London is coming on the train tomorrow afternoon. Why he doesn't say. And we're supposed to extend hospitality. I guess that means put him up."
Then the phone rang. I went into the dining room to answer it. "I have a person-to-person call for David Crehore," the operator said. It couldn't possibly have been for me, so I handed the receiver to Dad.
After a couple of minutes Dad hung up the phone. "That was Harry from the Chicago office," he said. "He says this Perkins guy has done us some favors in the past. He had business in Chicago, and now Jones wants us to roll out the red carpet for him. Apparently he likes to hunt birds, so this trip has the earmarks of a junket. I wondered what the hell was going on, and now I know: I've been elected to play grouse guide this weekend."
Mom shifted quickly into hostess mode. "Let's see," she said, "how can we make him feel at home? We have some tea, but beyond that I'm not sure-English people eat things like herring and kidneys, and I don't think the A&P carries them."
"We can have a beef roast Friday night, a ham on Saturday, grouse on Sunday and sausages for breakfast," Dad said. "That'll have to do." He was really extending hospitality; for us that was about a month's supply of high-grade meat.
I couldn't wait. An Englishman was coming! Through my reading, I had met many fictional Britons, ranging from the Water Rat to Sherlock Holmes, but never a real one. Best of all, it was the weekend of the teachers' convention. There would be no school on Friday, and I wouldn't miss a thing.
By the time I woke up the next morning, Dad had left for the office and Mom was giving the house an unscheduled fall cleaning. She had just started dusting the Venetian blinds when Dad came home early. "That's enough, Charlotte," he said. "The train gets here at 4:30, and I've got to get going. You coming, Davy?"
At the station Dad drummed his fingers nervously on the steering wheel. Maybe, like me, he was picturing Percival Perkins as a superior being: wealthy, tall and imperious, impeccably dressed in tweeds, a man who would outshoot us in our own woods, condescend to us ever so politely, and make us feel like the small-town hicks that we were.
Before the tension could grow much more, the train pulled in and we walked to the platform to meet our visitor. Six people got off, none of them remotely English. The conductor called, "'Board!" and the engineer gave a double toot on the whistle. Just as the train started moving, a dirty canvas bag tumbled down the steps followed by a thin, middle-aged man with a tangled mop of gray hair, merry blue eyes and the long expressive face of a comedian. Slung over his shoulder was a leather leg-o'-mutton shotgun case.
Dad and I turned toward each other, and our eyes met. Could this be the superior being? "Mr. Perkins?" Dad asked as he strode toward him.
"Mr. Crehore?" said the man. They shook hands, and Dad introduced me. Mr. Perkins had on a wrinkled waxed-cotton shooting jacket worn shiny on the elbows and sleeves, a pair of baggy corduroy trousers and suede desert boots with scuffed toes. "Call me Perce," he said.
I hoisted Perce's bag to my shoulder and carried it to the car. It was stamped "ROYAL MAIL" in faded Gothic capitals. Our visitor was using an old British mailbag for his luggage, and Dad and I finally were able to relax a little. Regardless of origin, Perce Perkins was apparently one of us, a member of the perennially underpaid lower middle class.
Dad took his pipe from his shirt pocket. At this cue, Perce extracted a four-ounce tin of Barney's Punchbowle tobacco from his coat and held it out to Dad. "Try some of mine, Dave," he said. Dad opened the tin and filled his pipe as Perce filled his.
Our guest had passed the final test. Punchbowle was a strong Scottish mixture of Virginia and Latakia. Dad smoked it when he could afford it and thought highly of anyone else who did. In about five minutes Percival Perkins had become a friend. On the way home we stopped to buy him a hunting license, and I watched as he wrote his name and address on the form: Percival Paul Perkins, 10 Mole St., Dorking, Surrey, England.
When we walked through our front door, we were enveloped in the aroma of roasting beef from a Dutch oven on the stove. Between gusts of beef we could smell cinnamon, which suggested an apple pie in the oven. Mom emerged from the kitchen, brushing back her hair and drying her hands on her apron.
"Perce, I'd like you to meet my wife, Charlotte," Dad said, but there was no need for further formality. Perce took a step toward Mom, reached out and took both her hands in his as though they were about to be married, and looked deeply into her eyes.
"Perce Perkins," he said. "Are you the lass who is responsible for this beautiful home and that delicious food I smell in the kitchen?"
"Why, I suppose I am," Mom said, blushing. As far as I knew, no one had ever called her a "lass." In 30 seconds Perce had won her heart as well.
The three adults talked while I did my afternoon chores: feeding the beagles and shooing our bantam chickens into their henhouse in the backyard. Then the four of us sat down to supper. It was good that Mom had chosen the largest beef roast in the freezer; Perce ate like a tiger, consuming about a pound of the roast himself and exclaiming over each mouthful.
After supper-and Perce's second piece of pie-we made plans for the next day.
"We should get up fairly early," Dad said. "The grouse aren't early risers, but we'll need time for breakfast. I can promise you some really fresh eggs-nice little brown ones from our chickens-and the best pork sausage you ever ate, made right here in town. Then we'll head out to Roman Smonjeski's farm, about five miles from here. He's got a 200-acre woodlot that hasn't been hunted yet this season, so we ought to be able to move a few birds around. That will take us most of the day if the rain holds off."
"Jolly good," Perce said. "I'll set my alarm for five o'clock."
Saturday dawned cloudy and gloomy. I was too wound up to need an alarm clock; I put on my hunting clothes and boots and clumped down the stairs. Perce and Dad were sitting at the kitchen table smoking their morning pipes.
"Gentlemen, it's time to go fetch some eggs," Mom said. "About a dozen, if possible." We walked across the backyard to the chicken pen. Dad and I went in, followed by Perce.
"Perce," Dad said, "would you close the door behind you? I don't want the roosters to get out."
When Dad opened the henhouse, Wilbur and Orville, the roosters, jumped down to the ground, but the 10 hens stayed put on their nests. Dad reached under a black-and-white hen in search of an egg. Suddenly, he spun around. "Damn!" he said. "The roosters are loose."
"Bloody hell," Perce said. "I must have left the door ajar. After the buggers!" He ducked through the doorframe and began to run after Wilbur and Orville.
"No, no, Perce," Dad shouted, "don't... "
Perce could run surprisingly fast. When he caught up to the roosters, they took off with a clatter of wings, heading toward the house.
"... chase them."
"Blast!" Perce said. "I had no idea the little chaps could fly."
"Oh, yes," Dad said. "They fly like eagles."
Wilbur landed near the back door of the house and began scratching in a drift of fallen leaves. But Orville was made of sterner stuff. He kept on flying, locked his wings in a glide and soared to the peak of the garage roof.
"Oh, Lord," Dad sighed. "Davy, round up Wilbur and put him back. Perce, let's see if we can figure out a way to capture Orville."
Wilbur had been through this before. I chivvied him along quietly, and when he saw the hens, he ran stiff-legged to the pen and hopped over the doorsill. I carefully shut the door and headed for the garage, where the real action was.
When I got there, I saw that Dad had devised a strategy involving ladders and landing nets. He was atop a stepladder on one side of the garage holding a big musky net. Perce was on the other side, standing on a wooden extension ladder with a smaller net we used for bass. Orville was having the time of his life, strutting back and forth on the roof peak and shaking his wattles.
"Davy," Dad said, "get a handful of gravel from the driveway, and when I tell you, kind of lob it at Orville. Perce, be ready-there's no telling which way he'll fly. OK, Davy, throw!"
I lobbed the gravel, but Orville had seen through our designs. He took off before the gravel hit the roof, flying directly at Perce. Tottering on one of the ladder's top rungs, Perce fell backward, made a desperate sweep with the net, yelled, "Oh, blast!" and disappeared below the roof line. There was a second of silence, followed by a thud.
"So much for the hospitality," Dad said.
There were about 20 mature oak trees in our yard, and they shed a huge volume of leaves every fall. There was nowhere else to put the leaves, so we simply raked them across the grass to the edge of a wooded ravine that ran along one side of the yard. There they lay in great piles, soft and fragrant, accumulating slowly over the years-and it was on one of these piles that Perce fell.
Dad and I ran around opposite ends of the garage. Perce was lying on his back; beside him was the net with Orville inside. I got to Perce first. "Davy," he said, "did you see it? I led the little blighter about two feet and got him on the way down!"
"Never mind that," Dad said. "Are you alright?"
Perce moved his legs and arms and then sat up. "I believe I'm intact," he said, and began slapping his jacket. "Except, dammit, I've broken my pipe." He took the pieces from a pocket and tried to fit them together. "Oh, poor thing," he said. "It was practically new, and I had such high hopes for it."
"I can fix that, Perce," Dad said. "Davy, go get the box in the glove compartment of the car." The box held a brand new Parker pipe, fresh from London by way of the little smoke shop in town. Dad gave the pipe to Perce with a bow. "To the champion rooster-catcher of River Road," he said. Dad picked up Orville, who still was struggling in the net. "If you're sure you're OK, we'd better put this eagle away and get some eggs."
After breakfast Dad, Perce, Jeff, Nip and I made the 15-minute drive to the Smonjeski farm. Jeff was getting a little old for chasing rabbits, but his limited range made him an ideal flushing dog, and he had learned to quarter back and forth in front of us like a springer spaniel.
Nip was our retriever. I had taught him to fetch by throwing a tennis ball and giving him a slice of hot dog when he brought back the ball. He would retrieve only if I had a hot dog with me and showed it to him first, but the workman is worthy of his hire.
At the farm we found Roman and his sons finishing up the milking. "I heard partridges drumming in the woods all spring," Roman said, "and back in July I jumped a half-dozen of 'em. So you should have something to shoot at. I'll wait 'til you're in the woods before I let the cows out."
Roman's woodlot was surrounded on three sides by a flooded, impenetrable cedar swamp, and we could get to the woodlot only by crossing the pasture and entering from the east. He followed us out to the barnyard and watched as we put our guns together: Dad's 12-gauge Lefever, my Fox 20 and Perce's handsome old Army & Navy boxlock.
"One thing I should tell you," Roman said. "See that black cow over there, the one with the bell? I just bought her a month ago. She's taken over as boss cow, and she's got a temper, so watch out for her when you come back across the pasture."
Once into the woodlot, we spread out in a skirmish line about 20 yards apart. "Hunt 'em up!" Dad commanded the beagles, and we stepped off into a jungle of hazel brush. We hadn't walked a hundred yards when a grouse flushed almost at Perce's feet, throwing up a shower of leaves and roaring away through the understory. Perce shouldered his gun smoothly and touched off a shot.
"That was a grouse, I assume," he said. "I didn't see it fall."
"I heard it hit the ground," Dad said. "Davy, put your retriever on it."
Nip was a confirmed shot-breaker. He already was looking for the bird, and after about a minute he brought it back. I held out his chunk of hot dog, and he dropped the dead grouse. "Jolly good," Perce said. "My first ruffed grouse." He smoothed its feathers and tucked it into his coat.
We hunted across the woodlot until we reached the cedar swamp but didn't move another bird. We walked north a bit and started another swath through the woods. About halfway across, Jeff flushed a grouse that flew straight away in front of me, an easy shot. I dropped it, and Nip made another retrieve, holding the bird until I gave him another piece of hot dog.
We hunted back and forth across the woodlot for two more hours without moving another grouse. "I think they can smell the rain coming," Dad said. "They're heading for the swamp to roost."
We trudged on a bit farther, and then the last bird of the day flushed in front of Dad. It ducked behind a big hemlock and banked hard left toward the cedar swamp. Dad waited it out and killed it at 35 yards with the Lefever's left barrel. As Nip delivered the grouse, rain began pattering on the leaves overhead. "We'd better hunt our way back to the pasture and decide what to do when we get there," Dad said.
When we arrived at the pasture, we found that Roman's cows had heard us coming. About 50 craggy Holsteins were gathered just across the fence, eyeing us curiously. We unloaded our guns, and I leashed the beagles while Dad and Perce lit their pipes, clenching them upside down to keep the rain from putting them out. We watched more rain clouds scudding toward us from the east.
"Well," Dad said, "I'm as wet as I care to be. I'm ready to call it a day if you are."
"No argument," Perce said. "But I wonder about that black cow. She's right over there, and she's watching us."
Perce handed Dad his open gun. "I'll cross the fence and see what she does," he said. I spread the barbed wire so Perce could squeeze through. He walked a few yards into the pasture, but the black cow didn't like him. She shook her head menacingly and started for him at a brisk walk, her vast udder swinging from side to side. Perce waved his arms at her. "G'wan, you old git! Shoo! Be gone!" he yelled, but the black cow kept coming. Perce started walking backward and looked at us over his shoulder. "Spread the wire again, I'm coming through," he said. At the last possible moment he turned his back on the advancing cow and crawled between the strands.
Perce re-lit his pipe. The black cow had her head across the top wire of the fence and was pawing the earth like El Toro. "It's a standoff," he said. "We can't walk through the swamp, and we can't cross the pasture as long as that old gal is here."
Then his face brightened. "Half a minute, I've got an idea." He walked slowly toward the black cow, speaking in a crooning, singsong voice: "Easy, lass, I'll soon sort you, you're in for a big surprise." When he was within a foot of her, he took a deep, whistling draw at his pipe and blew a dense cloud of Punchbowle smoke into her nostrils.
"Baw!" bleated the black cow. She reared up, snorting, and cantered off to the far corner of the pasture, her bell clanging and the rest of the cows thundering after her.
Dad and I were dumbstruck. "Where did you learn to handle livestock?" Dad asked.
"Oh, it wasn't me, it was the tobacco," Perce said. "I believe it was the Latakia she didn't like. My wife doesn't care for it either."
The two men knocked the ashes out of their pipes, looked at each other and laughed.
"Well, I hope you had a good time today, Perce," Dad said. "Too bad you only got one shot, but in Wisconsin a bird a day is a good average any way you slice it. Three shots, three birds-we're all perfect today."
Driving home, Dad made an admission. "Perce," he said, "I've got to say I'm relieved. Before I met you I assumed you'd be some kind of upper-class English hotshot who would make Davy and me look like rustics."
Perce laughed until he was short of breath. "Dave," he said, "I was thinking the same sort of thing, but the other way around. I had you figured for a hard-bitten son of the pioneers who would make a fool of a city boy like me. But I guess bird hunters are all cut from the same bolt."
It rained all night and still was raining Sunday morning, so we ate a lazy breakfast of bantam eggs and leftover ham. We hashed over Saturday's events; Perce said hunting ruffed grouse was almost as much fun as hunting bantam roosters and that he never would forget Orville and the boss cow. Nor would we.
Mom broiled the grouse for lunch, and then we drove Perce to the railroad station. We never saw him again, but he and Dad exchanged Christmas cards and tins of tobacco until Dad died in 1984. Sometimes the cards had pictures of grouse, sometimes cows or chickens.

Dave Crehore lives in Green Bay, Wisconsin, and is a retired Wisconsin DNR writer and photographer. He hunts grouse and woodcock in the wilds of Oconto County, to the extent that can be done by a 65-year-old man and a 10-year-old golden retriever.