Shore-bird Shooting 311 



over the lagoon, entices me out of the shelter of the 

 bluff; I shudder once or twice, and then lie down 

 on my back in the wet sand. The clear, shrill 

 note of a blackbreast rings out, and presently 

 comes the first shot ; it was a lucky one, for the 

 bird didn't light or pretend to, but just swept by 

 with the wind. A flock of three ; all hover, I 

 kill one. Four, and then a pair, and several single 

 birds, all blackbreast, come heading into the stool 

 under the lee of the island. Now they are every- 

 where, all following the lagoon toward the flats, 

 which are beginning to show. I have been shoot- 

 ing fast, and considering wind and everything else, 

 have done pretty well. A flock of peep with 

 something big in it comes along; I bag the big 

 part of the bunch and pick up a dowitcher. Several 

 single yellowlegs drop in, a few more blackbreast, 

 and one curlew. The curlew was a hard shot, 

 high up and a good way off, but he collapsed at 

 the second barrel. The tide has left me high 

 and dry, or rather high and wet, and as the flight 

 is over, I pull up stakes. There are over thirty 

 birds, mostly blackbreasted plover, piled up by the 

 blind. This was the biggest bag of blackbreast 

 I ever made. I wonder if my wayward pals have 

 been done up and come to the conclusion they 

 have; it is a long way across to the other shore, 

 but here goes, and I drag myself over the soft, 

 wet sand. They had found good shooting, — one 



