WHITE-WINGED SCOTER 331 



is cool and fresh, as the light northwest wind comes in over the ledges, 

 fragrant with the odors of kelp and rockweed. There is hardly light 

 enough at first to see the line of boats strung out straight offshore 

 from the point, but soon we find our place in the line, anchor our sev- 

 eral strings of wooden decoys, and then anchor our dory within easy 

 gunshot of the nearest decoys, which if correctly placed are the small- 

 est and most life-like; the largest decoys are merely to attract the birds 

 from long distances. Perhaps before our decoys are set we have seen 

 a few shadowy forms flitting past us in the gloom, or heard the whistle 

 of their wings in the dark, the beginning of the morning flight; occa- 

 sionally the flash of a gun is seen along the line and the day's sport 

 has begun. As the gray of early dawn creeps upward from the sea 

 we can clearly distinguish the long line of boats, perhaps a dozen or 

 fifteen, anchored at regular intervals, a little less than two gunshots 

 apart so that birds can not slip through the line, and extending for 

 several miles offshore, an effective barrier to passing flocks. Every eye 

 is turned northward, looking up the coast and straining to discover 

 the minute specks in the distance, as the first flock appears several miles 

 away. 'Nor'ard,' the warning signal is passed along the line, as some 

 keen eye has made the longed-for discovery, and every gunner crouches 

 in his boat to watch and wait and hope for a shot. Soon we can make 

 them out, an irregular, wavering bunch of black specks, close to the 

 water and well inshore. The boom of distant guns tells us that other 

 gunners up the coast have seen them and perhaps taken their toll. On 

 they come, now strung out in a long line headed straight for us, big 

 black birds with flashing white wing-patches, 'bull white wings,' as the 

 males of this species are called; we shall surely get a shot. But no, 

 they have seen us and swerved, flying along the line seaward; a shot 

 from the next boat drops a single bird and they pass through the line 

 beyond, dropping two more of their number. A bunch of young Surf 

 Scoters, 'gray coots,' is headed for the next boat, and we try to at- 

 tract their attention by imitating the whistling of their wings; they 

 turn and swing in over our decoys, dropping their feet and preparing 

 to alight; four barrels are fired in quick succession and three of them 

 drop in the water. Two of them will die as they are lying on their 

 backs with feet kicking the air, but the other has its head up and is 

 swimming away. We throw over our anchor buoy and give chase, but 

 cripples are hard to hit in the water and we have a long pull and plenty 

 of shooting before we land him. Meantime we have missed a mag- 

 nificent shot at a large flock of 'skunk heads,' Surf Scoters, which 

 circled over our decoys and escaped through the gap, and on our return 

 we find only one of our 'dead' birds. 



"A temporary lull in the flight gives us a chance to rest and admire 

 the beauty of the scene around us; the delicate blush of dawn deepens 

 and brightens as the gorgeous hues of sunrise spread from the eastern 

 horizon over the broad expanse of sky and sea, a rapidly changing play 

 of colors until the sun itself appears over the water and bright daylight 



