The setter was a vision of electrifying beauty, outlined with St. Elmo's fire from the top of her head to her upright tail.

He awoke to the drip, drip, drip of rain on the cabin roof, the cold, miserable drip of a winter rain. It meant flooded creeks and branches, a sea of mud in the kennel yard, moon-landing boots of mud and chopped cotton stalks. It meant birds buried deep in the bays, where a ferret could not dig them out.

It was a mid-south winter rain, cold, inescapable and unrelenting. Misery was its name.

Things had started badly and become progressively worse. Sam, the big black and white pointer, the top dog in his kennel, could usually hold his own in the fastest company. This week he had been a different Sam. He seemed unable to do anything right.

On his very first covey he forgot whom he was working for and became lost on point. He came into view after an eternity of fuming search, then broke point, flushed the birds, standing with a confused look, not bothering to chase.

He stumbled over singles without properly honoring their flight. Worse, when the man berated him for his ineptness he looked at him as if to say: "Okay, hot stuff. You try it. See if you can do better."

Nell, the setter bitch, was ordinarily the epitome of decorum and solicitous of his whereabouts. Not on this trip; she was wild and uncontrollable. He was continually yelling and screaming at her in a vain attempt to keep her in the general vicinity but often she would wander off, sometimes getting far behind, at others disappearing for time on end.

Worse, she was unreliable on her birds. Upon scenting birds she would not even break stride, running them up and chasing them out of sight. This behavior was completely out of character, seeming without cause or cure, and filling him with despair.

Bud, Sam's son, had shown promise of becoming the best bird dog he had ever known.

Now, not to be outdone, he seemed to be vying for the distinction of the worst.

They were working along a sandy two-track, although "working" was an exaggeration.

Bud was trotting down the two-track making no effort to hunt the cover on either side.

After some pointed comments and the suggestion his hide might get a tanning, he finally made a move calculated to fool his master into thinking he was hunting.

The act failed. He was soon digging in the grass for a mouse. The activity disturbed a huge covey of quail. Oblivious, Bud did not even acknowledge their flight. The birds strung out, dropping into the broom straw in plain sight.

Now, the times you get modern bobwhite quail scattered in the broom straw are about as rare as a brother-in-law repaying the 50 dollars he borrowed from you when he was fired from his last job.

Before him lay riches, something remembered from his far-distant youth. Mentally he marked the singles. Then he took Bud on a circuitous route to kill time, giving the birds a while to give off scent. It was not hard to do. Bud was not going anywhere except for a stroll.

Finally they came around to the area where he had marked the birds down. He stopped, giving his usual command to hunt close: "Bud! Birds! Birds in here; stay with me."

Why was he not surprised? It was a day of madness. Suddenly Bud came alive. With a burst of speed he headed for the horizon. Whistling and screaming would bring him in for a moment, then he was gone again. Nothing would keep him in, hunting the singles.