Theophilus Nash Buckingham was, to use a once popular term, a gunnerman for the ages. Virtually all his long life was devoted to wingshooting and bird dogs, and the hallmark of his efforts as a writer was an uncanny knack of transporting his reader to golden field of broom sedge bustling with bobwhites, to views of stylish pointers etched against a mid-South sunset, or to firesides where, in his words, “supper was a delicious memory.”