In this issue:

• God's Testimony Against Mankind
• Instead of Me
• What Sinners Should Plead With God
• The Frugal Fly Fisherman
• Bamboo, Brookies, and Woolly Buggers
• Websites of Interest
  

Recently a reader gave me a long-stemmed Savinelli, which I treasure as a measure of his appreciation for this publication and his graciousness as a person. So, tonight as I write THE CHURCHWARDEN I'm smoking. . . that's right, a churchwarden. Poetic continuity at its finest, I'd say. Packed in the pot of this wonderful pipe is some really superb stuff put out by ASHTON dubbed OLD DOG: a most excellent English mixture smooth enough to be an all day smoke, especially if you're one of those unrepentant Latakia lovers. I bought the blend because I like the name.

OLD DOG reminds me of the old dogs I see when I go pheasant hunting in the fall, aged mutts and pedigrees excited as little pups about pushing a bird high into the sky. Way past their prime, nonetheless they hunt harder than their younger K-9 comrades because they know their purpose in the field; they aren't distracted by frivolous pursuits. He who has ears to hear, let him hear.

Yeah, I know it's August, but October is coming. And September is simply the in-between time, the transition from the dog days of summer to the dog days of autumn. Only, the dogs bark in October. They're anxious to snuffle and sniffle through the tall dead grass and the low dry brush in search of a reticent rooster. I am, also.

Shotgunners---myself included---clump together on opening day at the Swift River Wildlife Management Area, trading lies, telling tales. We wait at the gate for sunrise before going in so we don't get bagged ourselves. A porky ole hound of questionable parentage pees on some guy's foot. Another pheasant season begins.

The work day is over, there's only a few hours of daylight left. I punch out and rush to where the ringed-necks live and die. Along the dirt road leading to the fields, I intercept a gentleman who motions for me to come quickly. He says,"My dog is on point. I've got my limit; the bird is yours if you want it." The pheasant is pinned on the crest of an embankment. It flushes just about head level with the pointer. Instinctively I pull up and take aim, but I never pull the trigger.

I'm walking down the same dirt road on a different day when I hear scratching up ahead. Sure enough, it's a big cock. I see the bird, the bird sees me and we both run into the woods. Suddenly there's an explosion right at my feet as the rooster takes flight. He shoots up so close I can feel the wind from his wings on my face. I'm severely rattled. One shot, then two; supper gains altitude and flies away unscathed.

It's October, the glory of God blazes through the trees. Red, yellow, and orange---the forest is on fire. Sometimes I quit hunting for a while to watch it burn. I have to, for I'm on holy ground. I'd take off my shoes, but the briars would puncture my feet. So I offer praise instead.

Whether it's people or poultry, the males don't know when to keep their mouths shut. One arrogant cackle is all it takes to find yourself in hot water. An ill-timed squawk. . . the flurry of feathers. . . a sure swing and a clean kill. . . pheasant stew. The sun is setting now. The young dogs are still yelping. The old dogs are yawning; they know it's time to go home.

Ah, HOPPE'S No. 9---aroma therapy for the hunter's soul. I clean the gun and go to bed.

All this from a tin of tobacco. . . powerful medicine for the summertime blues.