Huntin, Shootin and Fishin (1966) watch online (quality HD 720p)
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The woods were made for the hunters of dreams, The brooks for the fishers of song; To the hunters who hunt for the gunless game The streams and the woods belong.
Quail Season The sun is slowly dropping In a serene and peaceful sky When the serenity is rudely shattered By a plaintive inquiring cry. A short time ago they built their nest And reared their brood of ten, Ten lively chicks like balls of fluff Blown on the summer wind. At the sound of a shot she came fluttering down Broken and lifeless to earth, The man with the gun gave a boisterous shout And laughed in mindless mirth.
There is a great poem called The Hunter. It is about a man who returned from war with a different opinion about hunting. His father pushed open the door and they went out into the freezing dawn together, leaving the snug security of the shack, the warmth of the kerosene stove, the companionable smell of bacon and coffee.
They stood for a moment in front of the shack, their breaths white in the icy air. Ahead of them was only the vast expanse of marsh and water and sky. Ordinarily Jeremy would have asked his father to wait while he fussed around with his camera, trying to record the bleak arrangements of black and gray and silver. But not this morning. This was the morning, solemn and sacred, when year-old Jeremy was to be initiated into the mystic rites of duck shooting.
And he hated it, had hated the whole idea ever since his father had bought him a gun, had taught him to shoot clay pigeons, had promised him a trip to this island in the bay.
But he was determined to go through with it. He loved his father, wanted more than anything in the world his approval. If only he could conduct himself properly this morning, he knew that he would get it. They came to the blind, a narrow, camouflaged pit facing the bay.
In it was a bench, a shelf for shotgun shells, nothing else. Jeremy sat down tensely, waited while his father waded out with an armful of decoys. Light was pouring into the sky now. Far down the bay a string of ducks went by, etched against the sunrise. Watching them, Jeremy felt his stomach contract. To ease the sense of dread, he took a picture of his father silhouetted against the quicksilver water. Then he put the camera hastily on the shelf and picked up his gun.
His father came back and crouched beside him, boots dripping, hands blue with cold.
He loaded his own gun with a metallic snap. Just the two of us. Jeremy could see everything with an almost unbearable clarity: His heart was thudding wildly. Make them stay away, please! But they kept coming. In they came, gliding down the sunlit aisles of space, heads raised alertly, wings set in a proud curve.
"Hugh and I" Huntin', Shootin' and Fishin' (TV Episode 1966) - Release Info - IMDb
The mallard was leading; light flashed from iridescent feathers around his neck and glinted on his ruddy breast. Down dropped his bright orange feet, reaching for the steel colored water. He was on his feet, gun ready. He stood up, leaned into the gun the way his father had taught him. He felt the stock cold against his cheek, saw the twin muzzles rise. Under his finger the trigger curved, smooth and final and deadly. In the same instant, the ducks saw the gunners and flared wildly. Up went the mallard as if jerked by an invisible string.
For a second he hung there, poised against the wind and sun, balanced between life and death. And he waited for the slam of the explosion. Up went the mallard higher still, until suddenly he tipped a wing, caught the full force of the wind and whirled away, out of range. There was no sound except the faint rustle of the grasses.
Jeremy stood there, gripping his gun. His lips were trembling. He stood the gun carefully in the corner of the blind. He sat on the rough bench, face buried in his hands, and wept. All hope of pleasing his father was gone. He had had his chance and he had failed. For a long moment his father was silent.
Then Jeremy felt him drop down beside him. He looked up, unbelieving. His father was handing the camera to him. The splendid bird soared, feet retracted, hear raised, wings flailing, white breast gleaming. Then he was gone. Jeremy lowered the camera. Sometimes it takes as much courage not to do a thing as to do it. The reason for these hunts was that the Legion felt that since the number of hunters nowadays had swelled to such proportions, it was dangerous for the hunters to use firearms--and therefore safer to kill the rabbits with sticks and stones and clubs.
Of course, there has been some criticism of the cruelty of these hunts - which the Legion has answered with the usual pro-hunting arguments--i. It is all, in other words, a matter of conservation.
Conservation, as the hunters use the word, means killing animals for their own good, but some of the animals apparently are so selfish they refuse to take the long-term view of it. There are now 15,, hunters in this country.
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And what is needed, of course, is an intelligent, long-term program for the conservation of them. Halfway measures are simply not enough. All of us, of course, applaud hunting accidents.
There has been a nice, healthy increase there. Our own favorite statistic is that an average of five hunters a year are killed by rabbits--in other words, while the hunter was clubbing the rabbit to death with his gun butt, the little rascal moved or something and the trigger accidentally went off and the hunter was killed. This is good news, of course, but this morning I have some really exciting news for you.
It proposes a carefully regulated regular open season on hunters where you and your club-mates, in a carefully regulated, gentlemanly club atmosphere, can have a really first-rate weekend shoot. However you prefer to hunt, the club asks only that you use your discretion. Please do not, for example, go out and take pot shots at hunters--within city limits, say, or in parked cars, or in their dating season.
Also, that they have a tendency to get cross when they are shot at. This is especially good for hunters who like to hunt animals specially raised for hunting. They themselves will be specially raised--in regular club preserves where they will be hunted only by the kind of people they would like to be hunted by.
Again, only in a gentlemanly club atmosphere. The important thing here, of course, is to get good specimens to begin with - sound of wind and limb with a good head of hair and a good scent. To get these specimens, of course, you need the proper calls. I have here a variety of calls that hunters regularly use. This one is for ducks demonstrates , this one is for deer demo , this for quail demo , and these for two different kinds of varmints two demos.
The Hunt-the-Hunters Hunt Club will also, of course, have calls. Last but not least, the Hunt-the-Hunters Club wishes to make clear that it never countenances going to excess in any way. Mounting heads is considered, by the club, in very bad taste. They recommend, instead, merely mounting the cap, or the jacket, or perhaps the gun itself.
Just use your judgment, and the inherent good taste of all sportsmen. Finally, there have already been some complaints by members of the club that hunters are tough. This, we can state unequivocally, is simply not true. If you shoot them in season, and season them properly, they can be quite tasty.