Upland Autumn

by William G. Tapply

  By that I mean treating the whole serious business (and to a vast army of scattergun enthusiasts it is a serious business) in a style similar to that which I used in His Majesty, the Grouse.

  My material would, I think, carry the yarn through to almost any length you might require.

  I wonder if this coincides with your conception of a shooting story. If you would write me at length concerning your requirements as to material, treatment, and length, I would be glad to start work at once and submit the manuscript for your approval.

  Throughout their 8-year relationship as editor and author, Burt Spiller and Eugene Connett never met. There is no evidence that they even spoke on the telephone. They communicated by letter exclusively. In those 10 years, they never called each other by their first names.

  Within days of receiving Burt’s reply to his inquiry, Connett wrote:

  Dear Mr. Spiller:

  I think your suggestion for the outline of the grouse shooting book is very good. I hesitate to suggest how long the book should be, as I think that is a matter for an author—at least at the start. I don’t want a padded book, nor one that is scimped [sic]. You will have about so much really important material and that is what should be used.

  Would it be possible to include something on woodcock shooting in the manuscript? The two birds seem to go together as a rule, and the inclusion of woodcock might broaden the market for the book. Grouse shooting is a very local sport in terms of book sales throughout the whole U.S. You might think this over.

  On July 24, Burt replied in longhand (and with his characteristic humor “of the repressed variety”) that he would certainly include woodcock in the book and hoped “to be able to submit the mss. in about two months or, if you desire accuracy, just prior to the month of October, around which, on my calendar, is a large circle of vivid red.” In fact, he didn’t mail off the manuscript until December 28, 1933.

  So far he had no contract or, in fact, any commitment whatsoever beyond the editor’s promise to give it “very careful consideration.”

  Burt had to wait six months for Connett’s response. That must have felt to the hopeful author like a very long silence. This, remember, was in the depths of the Great Depression, and publishers, like everyone else, were feeling the pinch. The decision to publish a book, especially one by an essentially unknown author, was not taken lightly, and we can only imagine the self-doubts and anxieties Burt must have felt while he waited.

  Connett’s letter was dated June 1, 1934:

  Dear Mr. Spiller:

  I certainly owe you an apology for having kept you waiting so long for some word about your book, Grouse Feathers. The real reason for the delay has been that we have been waiting to see how our spring books went and whether there would be an indication of improvement in business.

  First of all, we like your book very much indeed, and want to publish it. But don’t want to publish it while conditions are so bad. We find that it is not safe to publish anything but sure bets by well-established authors at present, and I think both you and ourselves will be much better off if we hold your book back until there is some life in the book business again.

  When the time seems ripe I would like to make a beautiful limited edition with good illustrations to sell for about $7.50 a copy. I believe that is the best way to handle such a book as yours. Grouse shooting is fairly localized in the northeastern states. Grouse shooters are great enthusiasts, and should appreciate a fine book on their sport. Therefore a limited edition, such as we usually publish, would be the proper thing in this case.

  Now, if you feel that you do not care to wait any longer, I will of course return the manuscript but I hope you will feel able to put up with a further delay for the reasons I give.

  Let me repeat that I think very highly of the book; it is well written, interesting, and thoroughly authentic. I shall enjoy publishing it just as soon as business conditions warrant it.

  Another six months passed. Then in January of 1935, Connett wrote to tell Burt that Grouse Feathers was scheduled for publication in the fall and that John Frost would be the book’s illustrator. In June Connett sent Burt a contract along with the news that “Mr. John Frost has developed tuberculosis” and that the illustrating job would instead be done by Lynn Bogue Hunt, who “does some remarkably fine work privately.” Now the plan was to publish the book at “about $20 per copy in an edition of about 750 copies.” A month later Connett wrote that he had “about decided to make Grouse Feathers a $10 book,” since $20 “does seem a bit rich for the book in days like these.”

  The book was published, appropriately, in October of 1935, and in December Connett wrote: “The book has been very well-received and the edition is sold out. Congratulations! Wishing you a happy New Year and looking forward to your next manuscript.”

  Throughout their correspondence, Burt peppered Connett with ideas for other books. Shortly after submitting Grouse Feathers, Burt told the editor that he had been “working on a book of animal stories,” and less than a month after signing the contract, he sent Connett an unsolicited “manuscript of a little yarn in which I am firmly convinced there should be a future.” Burt described it this way:

  The chief character, “Further Out Bill,” is a composite character, drawn, more or less, from the lives of several acquaintances in whom the wanderlust was a primal urge that had to be gratified.

  Believing this inherited instinct burned as strongly in the breasts of most men, as any one thing bequeathed by our forbears, I conceived the idea of trying to capture the spirit of the thing.

  It is my belief that, if it could be published in a rather nice little gift book, to sell at a reasonable price, it would have a definite appeal to the multitude of men who still believe the far horizons are the fairest and that every rainbow has its pot of gold.

  In late 1936, in a P.S. to a letter, Burt told Connett: “Have in mind a humorous baseball story. Would that be acceptable?” In early 1937 Connett proposed that Burt write a play about fishing, to which Burt responded enthusiastically and submitted a plot sketch. That summer Burt proposed “a fishing book done after the manner of Grouse Feathers” and also asked whether the editor would be interested in a novel he had finished called Rainbow Gold, which he described as “a business-adventure story—a he-man’s yarn.” Burt also queried the editor about “a cheaper edition of Grouse Feathers,” a compilation of newspaper columns devoted mostly to fishing, and an historical novel.

  Burton L. Spiller was a writer, eager to get his words into print. Eugene V. Connett was a publisher, eager to produce books that would earn his house a profit. Given the success of Grouse Feathers, Derrydale published Thoroughbred in 1936 and Firelight in 1937. Both books were collections of stories mostly on outdoors subjects, but not necessarily about hunting. It was the editor’s difficult duty to report to the author that both books were flops. In a letter dated July 21, 1937, replying to Burt’s inquiry about the fishing book, Connett explained:

  Dear Mr. Spiller:

  I should be very glad to see a book like Grouse Feathers on fishing. Grouse Feathers is a classic, but the two other books have not met with an equally enthusiastic reception, I’m sorry to say.

  I don’t think the time is ripe for a cheaper edition of Grouse Feathers because, to be entirely honest, your last two books proved a disappointment to so many of our customers.

  I should go on to explain that people who bought and liked Grouse Feathers naturally expected to get something similar when they bought the next books, and we know that there is no similarity.

  It may be dumb on the part of book buyers, but when they get something they really like, they want more of the same sort of thing instead of something entirely different.

  I knew all this when I published Thoroughbred and Firelight, but I have been living in hopes that you would get back to the level you reached in Grouse Feathers.

  I regret exceedingly that we have never had a chance to talk together, as I could then explain to you th
e theory behind the publications of this Press. Books published at $10 per copy have to have a permanent value—their contents must be of sufficient weight and worth to withstand the years. They must be a real contribution to the sporting lore and literature of America. Grouse Feathers had all this. The other two books were simply collections of unrelated stories—well written, but very ephemeral. They did not build up any particular significant characters in American sport—fictional or real. Nor did they make any significant contribution to the American sporting scene of today or yesterday as Grouse Feathers did.

  I hesitate to write thus to you, as you may take an antagonistic position which I couldn’t combat through the mail—nor will I try to. If we were face to face, you could unburden your mind and I could explain in detail what I am driving at.

  I hope that you will really try to follow me, so that we can get together for more books. Frankly, I can’t afford any more like the last two; on the other hand, I’ll publish as many Grouse Feathers as you can write!

  I have the feeling that you do not visualize our market accurately. I believe I know the men who comprise it pretty well—else I would have gone out of business long ago. But I can’t begin to tell you about it in a letter. I can only tell (fairly well) whether a MS will please it.

  Now, fire all the questions at me you can think of. Unless you can develop some grand characters for your fishing book, I shall be surprised if it will do. But with significant characters and types carrying the burden of the fishing theme, it might be O.K. Please remember that everybody and his cousin has written about fishing (which was not true of grouse shooting) and it is much more difficult to write a classic about fishing for that reason. However, go to it, and count on me for honest criticism and all the help I can give.

  Burt, characteristically, did not take an “antagonistic position” to Connett’s candid words. He replied: “Thanks for your recent letter. It was so comprehensive a one that it has cleared up a number of points which were not clear to me.” He said that he intended to pursue the fishing book and that he hoped to find a publisher for his historical novel.

  On November 10, 1937, Connett wrote:

  Dear Mr. Spiller:

  Are you doing anything about another book, on the lines of Grouse Feathers? People liked that book so much, that you could almost do another on grouse if you are short of subjects.

  I don’t want a book on the lines of Thoroughbred or Firelight, neither of which clicked very well. I do want a second Grouse Feathers, which was a grand success.

  Burt replied that the idea appealed to him “strongly,” and wondered if “it would be safe to do one in the same reminiscent vein, with grouse as the central theme, but stepping aside occasionally to include some of the other bright spots in my shooting memories?”

  Connett replied: “The chief thing I want is sporting stuff—no fire fighters and no more big game subjects for the time being.”

  On December 14, 1937, barely a month after Connett proposed the sequel to Grouse Feathers, Burt wrote:

  Dear Mr. Connett:

  Here is the first installment of that new grouse book.

  As I have studied it, the thing somehow seems to divide itself into periods of sevens, and it occurred to me that the story might well be divided thus, trying always to get the true perspective of that particular period of my life, and finding out if possible what thing it is within one that makes him a grouse hunter.

  In going over Grouse Feathers again I find I didn’t devote much space to dogs. I don’t know why, for I am a crank on grouse dogs. I wish also to discuss guns a bit more, and I have learned a great many things about birds in the last year or two. I am quite certain I have ample material—if it happens to be of the sort required.

  Burt submitted the last chapter for More Grouse Feathers on February 5, 1938, and the book appeared in April to enthusiastic reviews and good sales.

  For the next couple of years, Burt continued to submit book proposals. Connett, who was then ailing, accepted none of them. In 1940 he rejected the fishing book that the two of them had been discussing in a short note: “I’m afraid your new manuscript won’t fit into our list. I enjoyed reading it and thank you for letting me see it.”

  Burton L. Spiller’s historical novel, his “he-man’s yarn” called Rainbow Gold, his “Further Out Bill” story, his volume of animal tales, his fishing play, his humorous baseball story, his collection of fishing columns—none of them appeared in print. A collection of fishing stories called Fishin’ Around was published by the Winchester Press in 1974, the year after Burt’s death at age 87. We’ll probably never know if it was the same book that Eugene V. Connett declined to publish in 1940.

  Chapter 17

  VIRTUAL HUNTING

  The sound of gunfire lured me into the living room where Ben, my step-son, was playing a video game. He was manipulating a complicated electronic device with both hands, and he was using it like a gun to shoot at figures on the television screen that darted out of doorways, sprang up from behind automobiles, and leaped down from rooftops. When he hit one, it screamed and exploded in a fireball. In the corner of the TV screen was a score-board that recorded his hits and misses.

  As the game proceeded, the figures appeared more suddenly and moved faster. When Ben failed to hit them, they shot back at him. Mostly, he hit them. He was quick and accurate. Ben had never been bird hunting, but I guessed he’d make a pretty good wingshot.

  This got me thinking: Suppose, instead of evil creatures bent on the destruction of the world, the figures on the screen were ducks, grouse, or pheasants. Suppose the shooter was hunched in a duck blind or moving through a cornfield or stand of second-growth poplar. Suppose a brace of virtual English setters quartered ahead of him.

  Instead of a play station television game, you’d have one of those virtual-reality devices pulled over your head and a virtual shotgun in your hands. With the wonders of modern technology, they could make it look, smell, and sound real. You could hunt whenever you wanted for as long as you wanted without getting wet, cold, or tired. You could choose your birds, your dogs, your terrain. Just press the select button for Chesapeake geese, New England ruffed grouse, Argentina doves, or Africa mixed bag, hit the start button, and enjoy an afternoon of bird hunting from the comfort of your living room.

  Virtual hunting. I can imagine the day when that’ll be the only bird hunting we’ll have.

  I went quail hunting for the first time about 20 years ago. I’d never hunted anywhere outside of New England before. I’d never hunted quail. My friend Rick Boyer, who had recently moved to North Carolina, said I had to come down and do it, and I agreed. I’d been reading about Southern quail hunting all my life.

  Rick booked us at a plantation in south-central Georgia for the last week in February. He picked me up at the airport in Atlanta, and we drove through the red-dirt countryside. It was springtime and the peach orchards were in blossom. We stopped at a roadside shack and ate authentic pulled-pork barbeque sandwiches at picnic tables.

  I was pretty excited.

  We had grits, eggs, ham hocks, and biscuits and gravy for breakfast. Then we waited in rocking chairs on the verandah for Lyle, our guide, to fetch us. The morning sun was warm on our faces; the air was sweet with the scent of flowers, pine needles, and damp earth, and robins were plucking earthworms from the lush lawn. Back home there were two feet of snow on the ground.

  After a while, Lyle pulled up in his Chevy pickup. It had two dog boxes in the bed, a gun rack in the cab, and a tattered Confederate flag flying from the antenna.

  We bumped over dirt roads past fields rioting in wildflowers and oak woods lime-green with new leaves. Lyle talked about auto racing, catfish farming, bird dogs, and Georgia football. He called us “sir,” and when we asked him not to, he said, “Cain’t he’p it, suh. It’s how I was raised up.”

  After a while we stopped at a field. He called it a “course.” It grew about knee-high in some kind of grass. There were patches of briar
tangles and a few meandering game trails. The course was surrounded by brushy edges and scrubby oak-and-pine woods. It looked remarkably like the A. B. Frost print I’ve got hanging in my den.

  Lyle let out the dogs while Rick and I pulled on our boots.

  A minute later Lyle whistled, and when we looked up, we saw that one of his setters was on point near a clump of briars and the other was honoring her. It was classic, straight out of Nash Buckingham, and at that moment I felt somehow connected to the very roots of American bird hunting.

  I’d seen bobwhite quail on Cape Cod, and heard them whistling toward evening and at dawn. I knew they gathered in coveys, and when they flushed, it would be a sudden explosion of what the stories called little brown bombshells. The trick, I remembered, was not to flock shoot.

  Rick and I got our shotguns loaded. Lyle motioned for us to move into position on either side of the dogs. He’d go in and kick up the birds.

  There were just two quail in that covey. One flew left, my way, more slowly than the stories had led me to expect, and the other went straightaway in front of Rick. I swung and shot, and my bird dropped. Rick dumped his, too. It was vaguely disappointing. I’d expected a dozen or more birds darting in all directions, the whirr and blur of two dozen frantically beating wings, pandemonium.

  But it was southern quail shooting, and hey, I’d hit the first one I’d ever shot at over a classic point within minutes of arriving at the course. Not too shabby.

  By the time we’d stuffed our birds into our game pockets, the dogs were pointing again.

  Lyle kicked up two more quail. Rick and I dropped both of them, too.

  A few minutes later it was a mini-covey of five birds. I shot a double. In a lifetime of hunting grouse in New England, I’d never doubled.