FROM THE GAME FIELDS. 



The man who quits when he gets enough, with plenty of game still in sight, is a real sportsman. 



A BRUSH WITH THE BEETLEHEADS. 



OSCAR S. SEAVER. 



Cape Cod has in general a fair reputation 

 for shore shooting, but at the tip end of the 

 peninsula this reputation has dwindled con- 

 siderably. Visiting sportsmen who are dis- 

 . appointed blame their luck, and are reticent. 

 The man who happens along at the right 

 time is delighted, and lauds the region, but 

 he to whom the lauding is done expects to 

 find a hunter's -paradise and, being fooled, 

 reaches the limit of disgust ; yet all the 

 time there were probably birds enough to 

 give all good sport had each chosen the 

 right time and method. 



The trouble seems to lie in .the immense 

 detached stretches of feeding ground, over 

 which the birds shift so uncertainly as to 

 render shooting boxes useless. The hunter 

 at the extremity of the Cape must suit his 

 methods and times to the habits of the birds. 

 The visits of the various flights, particularly 

 those pf the beetlehead, are not paid to any 

 one ground, but now here, now there, with 

 most irritating capriciousness. 



A friend and I solved the difficulty in a 

 manner so simple and so successful as to 

 make a most delightful experience, on a 

 ground considered poor. The whistling that 

 came, at nightfall, across the waters, and 

 various chats with the lifesavers stationed 

 there, proved the existence of plenty of 

 beetleheads. To get them was the task. 

 The men at the station seemed always able 

 to supply their tables with the delicate 

 beetlehead, but they did not impart to us 

 their methods. 



We learned the secret from the birds 

 themselves, but it was night before they 

 put in an appearance. To our left, back 

 from the water, the flats became undulating. 

 I noted that as the tide came in among 

 these shoulders, one considerable hillock 

 remained uncovered, becoming an island. 20 

 paces in diameter at high tide. To this, as 

 the sinking sun shone in our faces, the birds 

 came in numbers, circling on set wings, 

 curving and settling there. The meaning 

 was apparent. As the birds settled they 

 followed the receding water, in quest of 

 food. As shoulders appeared on other 

 flats, the multitude thinned out, many go- 

 ing to the newly uncovered ground. 



As soon as the tide ebbed sufficiently we 

 drew up our hip boots and waded across to 

 our game. The birds were there in large 

 numbers, but widely scattered, and we found 

 stalking unprofitable, so we took to our 

 boat. 



On the way to Provincetown I explained 

 to my companion, B., my plans for the mor- 



377 



row. There was probably one hour when 

 every part -of that shoulder could be cov- 

 ered by one gun. I wanted to hold that gun. 

 The next morning tide would be high at 

 3, while the sun would not rise till 5. We 

 knew the birds flew best from dawn to 

 sunrise. We must, therefore, be on that 

 shoulder at high tide the next morning, in- 

 stalled in a seaweed blind, ready for action. 



B's bones were too stiff for such a goose 

 chase. He proposed to try it at afternoon 

 tide. This left the execution of the plan to me 

 alone, so, soon after 2 the next morning, gun 

 in hand and decoys in pocket, I was ready to 

 start. A hasty cup of coffee, a careful crawl 

 in the darkness along the pier to the boats, 

 and I was soon under sail, with the revolv- 

 ing light at Wood End blinking ahead. The 

 moon was behind a cloud. The town, with 

 its towers and roofs, was dimly silhouetted 

 against the gloom; the piers, the boats, the 

 buoys and all that floats off shore at a fish- 

 ing town were obscured. The only sounds 

 were from a few fishermen making early 

 start, the creak of a hoisting sail, the dip- 

 ping oars of a dinghy putting off to a boat ; 

 these were my warnings. A phantom vessel 

 passed ahead, discernible only as 2 huge, 

 shadowy sails, like the wings of some gigan- 

 tic bird, that silently flitted by. Heading 

 for my intended field, I was soon on shore 

 with my gun. 



The tide had begun to ebb, and I might 

 expect the birds at daylight. The island 

 was hardly more than 20 paces across. In 

 half an hour it would not be more than 3 

 times as big. Undressing, I took my boat 

 out far enough to be sure it would float at 

 low tide, and swam back. Hastily collect- 

 ing seaweed, I built a blind, put out my de- 

 coys, wading out far enough to have the 

 tide leave them just on shore when it had 

 run out, and Crawled into my seaweed, 

 drawing it around me up to my armpits. 



Then, as the first faint streaks of dawn 

 appeared, I began to call. At first I elicited 

 no response, but presently from somewhere 

 across the salt marshes came an answer, 

 which might have come from some plover 

 half asleep. Again I called, and then the 

 reply came nearer, clearer. A second bird 

 joined in, then a third, then rapidly others, 

 till it seemed that from every patch of eel- 

 grass came a whistle It was still too dark 

 to shoot, although the air seemed alive with 

 birds. One bunch swung close over my 

 head, not a gun's length above m«. For just 

 an instant I heard their whistle and the hiss 

 of their chopping wings, but they were in- 

 visible and made off at once. 



Directing my attention entirely to the nar- 



