ON CAPE COD MARSHES. 



WALDO. 



Every sportsman has his hobby; for each 

 there is some one tribe of the feathered, 

 furred and finned denizens of nature's wilds, 

 the pursuit of which furnishes him with 

 ideal sport. This one is never so happy as 

 when tramping brown October stubble in 

 quest of Bob White; that one knows no 

 thrill like that which passes through his 

 whole being at the sudden whirr of a 

 ruffed grouse; another is never in such 

 close touch with nature as when, rod in 

 hand, he wanders down a mountain brook, 

 and deftly whips the deep dark pools; and 

 to a fourth the bay of a hound is sweeter 

 than the most perfect symphony ever writ- 

 ten. As for myself, I have said I have 

 no choice, but as the long, hazy, lazy Au- 

 gust mornings slip away an irresistible 

 longing for the brown salt marshes of old 

 Cape Cod, and the whistle of yellow-legs 

 and plover, sends me speeding back to boy- 

 hood's home as rapidly as steam can carry 

 me. 



My destination is Sandwich, and the 

 glimpse from the car windows of the famil- 

 iar spires of the quiet little town, hidden 

 among its trees, makes the conductor's sten- 

 torian announcement entirely superfluous. 

 Ah, how good the clear invigorating salt 

 air is as I step off on the little concrete plat- 

 form and find George waiting to grip my 

 hand and to fill my all too credulous ears 

 with tales of the sport he has had and the 

 big bag he made no longer ago than yes- 

 terday. So we make an appointment for 

 3.30 the next morning and I hie me home 

 for a supper for which the salt air has al- 

 ready given me a ravenous appetite, and 

 then to bed. 



And seemingly my head has hardly 

 touched the billow when the buz-z-z-z-z-z 

 of the alarm proclaims 3 o'clock and sleep- 

 ily I tumble out to get into old togs and 

 hip boots; to fill the pockets of the old 

 hunting jacket with shells and a substantial 

 lunch and to creep out into the gray night. 

 As I approach the old church the call of a 

 yellow-leg from an indistinct figure ap- 

 proaching from the opposite direction an- 

 swers the call of a plover and I know 

 George is on time. 



Together we tramp down the old familiar 

 beach road, past the outlying farm houses, 

 across the railroad, and then turn off across 

 an old pasture where we walk plump into 

 the midst of a flock of quail that in the gray 

 dawn afford us but a momentary glimpse 

 of speeding feathered balls, gone with a 

 whirr that has set every nerve tingling with 

 pleasant anticipation of coming October 

 sport. The wash of the water on the shore 

 grows louder; the light moist East wind is 



filled with the odor of salt marshes and of 

 tarry nets drying on the beach banks. Now 

 we are on a narrow strip of marsh and 

 splash across to the banks of the famous 

 Cape Cod ship canal, that is to be some 

 day, perhaps. At present it is a mile long, 

 and the mouth has so filled in with sand 

 that it can be forded and I follow George 

 across. On the farther bank he discloses 

 the hiding place of a basketful of decoys 

 and carrying these we once more start over 

 the marshes. A half mile tramp brings us 

 to the stand, and we are none too soon, for 

 as we enter it another figure, just visible, 

 turns back to another stand not so good. 



The stand is built of bushes thrust into 

 the mud and securely lashed to a strong 

 wooden frame work. It is nearly square, 

 the bushes on the side from which most of 

 the shooting will be done being lower than 



"THE 2 GUNS SPEAK, AND SPEAK AGAIN." 



on the other sides. There is an entrance at 

 one end. Crevices are filled with seaweed. 

 Within is a comfortable bench with a good 

 back and a rest for guns. It will accommo- 

 date 3, but is more comfortable with only 2. 

 In front is a great pool left by the last tide, 

 little mud islands showing here and there. 

 It is the best feeding ground on the marsh. 

 In a few minutes George has a dozen de- 

 coys most artistically arranged out in the 

 water and then we make ourselves com- 

 fortable and wait. 



Gradually the sand hills in front assume 

 more definite shape; indistinct specks 

 round out into stilted stacks of salt hay; the 

 perspective of marsh stretches farther and 

 farther above; a faint yellow flush in the 

 East turns to a deep orange and a rim of 

 red peeps over the sand bank, increasing 

 until a great globe of fire, the sun. mounts 

 up, rolling back the fog from the hills be- 

 hind us and flooding the great broad 

 marshes with a glorious light. At a dis- 



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