WITH THE SHORE BIRDS. 



C. O. ZERRALIN. 



One morning near the end of August 

 my friend R. and I started for the beach. 

 A gentle Southwest wind was blowing and 

 we felt assured that sport would not be 

 lacking. After a brisk walk of about a 

 mile and a half over the cool sand in the 

 glorious early morning air, we reached our 

 box. The decoys were soon set out, and 

 then we sat watching the red sun rise over 

 the dashing surf. 



Suddenly we were brought to life again 

 by a plaintive "phee-in-wee." 



"Beetle heads," whispered R. and we an- 

 swered in seductive tones. Down the beach 

 they came, 4 blackbreasts, straight for 

 our decoys. "Crack, crack, crack, bang !" 

 and 3 plovers lay on the sand. 



It was not long until a pretty bunch of 

 redbreasts visited us, and departed minus 

 5 of their number. The flight had really 

 commenced, and large bunches of peep 

 were circling up and down the beach. Now 

 and then we heard shots down the flats, 

 but we had the first crack at the birds, 

 thanks to the wind and our lucky draw of 

 box number one. 



We had scarcely retrieved the redbreasts, 

 when a pair of winter yellowlegs came in. 

 Much to my disgust I missed with my first 

 barrel, but scored with my left. R. nailed 

 his bird, and our bag was beginning to 

 look formidable. Then came a lull, but 

 not for long. We heard the inimitable 

 whistle of a big willet. He came in most 

 unsuspiciously and a minute later he lay 

 under a covering of cool seaweed, with 

 his unfortunate cousins. 



A pair of gaudy "chickens," or turn- 

 stones, then gave me a chance to get the 

 laugh on R. He missed his bird with 



both barrels and I nearly gave him heart 

 failure, and myself also, by making a neat 

 double. He, however, made up by killing 

 4 stilt out of 6, while I was cursing over 

 a swelled shell in the breech of my gun. 

 The stilt, by the way, used to be rare in 

 Massachusetts, but during the last year 

 they have been shot in large numbers. The 

 afternoon before, 3 of us knocked 18 out 

 of one flock. 



Suddenly R. pointed up the beach, and 

 we saw a large flock of summer yellowlegs 

 heading for our decoys. We poured 4 

 charges into the well bunched birds, and 

 gathered up 9 of the fat little waders. 



The tide was then high, so we had to 

 pull up the decoys and wait for the ebb. 

 it was growing hot and we stripped to our 

 rowing shirts, and took a nap. We were 

 awaked by the mellow "phew-phew-phew" 

 of a winter yellowleg, and to our dis- 

 gust found that the tide was al- 

 ready well on the ebb. Decoys were out 

 in a jiffy, and we commenced to whistle 

 for the lonely winter. At last he suc- 

 cumbed to our entreaties and gave me an 

 exquisite chance to miss him with both 

 barrels. I redeemed myself by doubling a 

 pair of beetleheads a moment later. 



As it was growing dusk and the flight 

 had nearly ceased, and as a certain gnawing 

 feeling in our stomachs was increasing, 

 we gathered up our bag, and started home. 



"I'll bet this is the best bag to-day," said 

 R., when he handed the birds over to me, 

 having carried them half the way. He 

 was right for with the pair of grass birds 

 we got on the way home our 30 big birds 

 were as many as all the other shooters to- 

 gether had taken. 



AMATEUR PHOTO BY C. C, SPEIGHT. 



PHOEBZ BIRD. 



103 



