Leroy Maddox lives in Jones County just west of Laurel. He has lived long enough to see one of the most sweeping changes in the history of hunting in North America.

    When his legs were young and strong, he followed bird dogs in Jones County, just like many thousands of kindred hunters all across the Deep South. Coveys could be found almost anywhere outside the back doors of farm houses on small farms that dotted the land. Hunters holding mostly the Browning “humpback” 12s and 16s stepped ahead of the statue-still pointers. The plump birds burst forth in an explosion that thrilled the senses and captured the hearts of hunters everywhere.

    Those that tumbled amid a cloud of feathers were fetched by the beloved dogs, held gingerly in their mouths as they returned to their masters for a pat on the head and words of praise. Old dogs were kept until they died and were buried with civility resembling the last rites for humans. Puppies pointed a bird’s wing on a string at just a few months of age, thrilling their owners who bragged at gatherings around pot bellied stoves at the general store.

    These were the days of “birds.” The word meant bobwhite quail to everyone in the South. And the magnetism that bound their hunting to the hearts of everyone who sought them pervaded the population.

    Leroy Maddox, when asked about his hunting life, begins with a word or two about squirrels and rabbits in his youth when the old single shot guns were all most families could afford for youngsters. But his stories quickly move to birds and his eventually owning a Browning “Sweet Sixteen,” the semi-automatic, the barrel of which kicked rearward upon firing, ejecting the spent shell. Many small farms made do with aging mules or patched up tractors. But a Browning or the Model 12 Winchester pump was a requirement for the bird hunter in the family. And the shotgun’s worth was evident by everyone at Mama’s table in those golden years as they all ate the birds of kings with her biscuits and gravy.

    The sport of bird hunting with all its associated components was embraced by the hunters of the day as the pleasure of royalty. There was the noble aura about it resembling that which turkey hunters and flycasters for trout enjoy today. Bird hunting was the activity second only to the southern religions that inspired a man, and you could participate in either in overalls and a flannel shirt. Music could come close for some folks. But not in numbers consumed by bird fever.

    Maddox remembers each of his dogs, even the one that loved to retrieve because he often swallowed the birds. Yes, without chewing! Leroy cured that by handing the dog a bird covered in concentrated chewing tobacco juice.

    Another time Maddox was hunting with a man whose claims of shooting were excessive. “If telling the truth would have been easier, he would just go ahead and lie about it,” he said. Well as always happens to these fellows, he missed everything that flew. Finally, Leroy offered a cure. He put a bird in the man’s bag and the guy hit every shot after that. Why? Who knows? That’s just bird hunting.

    Eventually all the little farmers couldn’t compete and moved to jobs in town. Their farms were planted in pine trees or farmed for cotton or other crops. The briars and fence rows were gone. And so were the quail. But Leroy Maddox doesn’t like to talk about that. Instead he prefers to recall that German shorthair pointer, or the time when his dogs pointed six coveys in an afternoon, or when he bought a puppy for two dollars that turned out to be a gem.

    You see, for Maddox, those days never ended. They just moved from the calendar into his mind. His memories are there like Frank Capra’s “A Wonderful Life” is stored for all of us to live over and over again.