182 FEATHERED GAME 
reeds with his decoys placed about the edges of 
some convenient ‘‘pond-hole.’’ Soon Mr. Yel- 
low-legs is seen wheeling about just out of gun- 
shot, his long legs stretched out straight behind 
him and his head turning from side to side in 
search of his answering friend. He sights the 
decoys, and now his call is one short, sharp, 
questioning note. The deceiver answers just 
as he asks, and the bird sweeps down with set 
wings, then skimming along ten feet above the 
grass, discovers the cheat and starts, too late, 
away. A sudden flash from the screening 
reeds, and all in a heap, as neck, wings and legs 
roll into one shapeless lump, the bird comes to 
earth; a convulsive kick, a tremulous flutter of 
feeble wings, a gasp, and he lies still upon the 
grass,—‘‘another victim of misplaced confi- 
dence.’’ Look at him! One of the finest shore- 
birds which we have on our coasts, either to 
shoot or for the table. Perhaps the next will be 
a flock of half a dozen, when the gunner may 
make his ‘‘double’’ with much satisfaction to 
his vanity. Marsh gunning is fair and legiti- 
mate sport only when the gunner will do his 
shooting at birds on the wing. It certainly de- 
generates into ‘‘pot-shooting,’’ or worse, when, 
