CHAPTER VII 



RAIL-SHOOTING 



When the wild oats along the tidal rivers of 

 our coast begin to turn yellow with the first touch 

 of fall, the time for rail has come, and the high 

 tides of September give the sportsman his first 

 chance. The Connecticut River, where it broad- 

 ens into the Sound, is one of the favorite haunts 

 of these birds. Here Essex is the usual destina- 

 tion. Some three miles up the river from Say- 

 brook, the little town of Essex, with its one hotel 

 and old-fashioned houses, looks now pretty much 

 as it did a hundred years ago. Rail tides gen- 

 erally come toward the middle of the day, and 

 the pusher is waiting for you at the landing; 

 you stand for a minute looking up and down 

 the broad expanse of river. Everywhere along 

 the shore are wavy patches of high grass reaching 

 far out into the water. These are the wild oats, 

 and here live the rail. A strong tide is running 

 in, and you step into the flat-bottomed skiff, which 

 is rigged with a high stool firmly tied to the front 

 seat. The only task now is to sit still on this stool 

 and be shoved. A short row up the river and 



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