VICISSITUDES OF SINK-BOX SHOOTING 53 
has proved their ruin. Fifty years ago golden plover 
were plentiful. They were innocent, confiding little 
birds. Sometimes flock after flock, even after being 
shot into, would return again and again to the decoys 
in response to invitation whistles. To-day golden 
plover are few and far between. 
It was therefore a great surprise to suddenly see one 
of the most beautiful sights among the game birds, 
several flocks of golden plover flying in the bright sun- 
light, high in air. They looked like flying gold pieces, 
fresh from the mint. There were three flocks of them, 
forty rods apart, when they first came in sight. Evi- 
dently attracted in their flight by the North Lake they 
had stopped for a drink and a bath in fresh water. As 
I watched, the three flocks drew closer together, then 
rose higher, until finally joining in one compact band, 
they headed southward towards the land of good old 
summertime. 
It is more than possible if I had been shooting as 
much as usual, the sound of my gun might have alarmed 
them and driven them to continue their journey by 
another route. It was most fortunate, for I wouldn’t 
have missed seeing them fly over, for all the ducks on the 
marsh. 
There were a dozen large flocks of a grayish long-billed 
bird, that often flew twittering over the water and 
sometimes over the decoys. Somehow they looked 
familiar but I could not exactly place them. That 
evening I asked what they were. They were dowitchers 
or brown-backs in winter plumage. They looked very 
neat indeed in their gray winter suits, far different 
from the brown birds I was accustomed to see in August. 
Then they came readily to the decoys in answer to the 
summer yellow-leg call. But these gray-uniformed. 
