376 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[MAY 5, 1894. 



@h* Sportsman §anpst 



WATCHING THE BRANT GROW BIG. 



The raw east wind is shiver-laden. Fine grains of sand 

 skurrying along the beach rattle into the ghastly open 

 mouth and out through the ragged bones of the breeze- 

 dried gurnard. A song sparrow flips for a moment into 

 a thrummed marsh elder and then falls into the salty 

 desiccated grass again and hides himself away from a 

 wind that askews his tail and parts his soft feathers 

 almost to the place where his cheery song is concealed. 

 It is not time for him. He helps make spring time but 

 cannot do it all alone. Wait little one, we give you 

 credit. A herring gull essays to give life to the March 

 morning by hovering in low circles over the ruffling 

 black channel water, and then finds it more in keeping 

 to stop and merge his color into that of a stranded ice 

 floe in the distance. The leaden heaven moves slowly 

 over us, unbroken save for the slanting missiles of sleet 

 that peck against the cabin window and then bound full 

 tilt to their grandmother the good old South Bay. 

 Captain Jack finishing his early cup of hot coffee down 

 below comes up out of the companion way on deck in his 

 woolen shirt, hitches up one suspender, runs his hands 

 through his grizzly unwilling hair, hawks and expec- 

 torates over the rail. "Golly! Tide runs like a hoss, 

 don't it?" says he, as a tangle of submerged eel grass 

 scratches alongside in the swift ebb, and the bowsprit of the 

 sloop sidling in the inlet current.bunts a periwinkle shell 

 out of the hard marsh bank that protected us at anchor 

 during the night. Captain Jack does not produce much 

 effect in the landscape about the marshes, because he 

 looks so much like any natural object — excepting when 

 becomes to town.- He has stout muscles and a good 

 heart. 'Tis only his head that fails when he comes in con- 

 tact with civilization. 



The sea air smells. It is growing richer with the ex- 

 halations from looming flats as the tide shrinks, and with 

 ozone from the growling, muttering surf on the outer 

 beach. I, eagerly inhaling, find in distending lungfuls of 

 it the peace of the infusoria of the flats and the power of 

 the grand, swinging ocean. Every breath soiled by me 

 is carried onward and away to the westward and replaced 

 by a new one. How long, clean east wind, before I am 

 translucent within? For last night we left the city where 

 men call air the emanations from percolating swill and 

 cast-off things, and where the tarnishing atmosphere, 

 laden with entities of death, reeks in the nostrils and dulls 

 the eyes of that poor mammal whose brain hangs depend- 

 ent over figures and fads, amid the walls and corridors 

 and walls again, that keep from him the sight of this 

 sweet world. Is any other love like love for nature? Is 

 any joy like the joy of the sportsman? I have seen the 

 mother with eyes suffused with tears of love for the 

 chubby boy in her arms. I have heard the maiden pray 

 for power to love her lover more. But these loves are un- 

 certain. The boy grows wicked and brings gray hairs 

 and tears of sorrow. The lover is better pleased with an- 

 other. But nature is steadfast. In the city the slinking 

 street cur brings forth her mongrel whelps beneath the 

 wharf, not knowing whence shall come the food to turn 

 to milk, and the pampered pug, bonbon-fed, has not the 

 strength to propagate her kind. But here all life multi- 

 plies, and in abundance, and forever. 



The bars of sand that divide currents into currents and 

 that direct the apportionment of bay waters, are shining 

 yellow here and there, and the white froth rolls up and 

 blows across them. Hark! From out the west a merry, 

 flying rabble appears, buffeting the winds, caring naught 

 for the cold. A rabble of warm birds that on even fine 

 head down the bay with hurrying wings and outstretched 

 necks, chanting as they go, and in good company. Hark 

 to the sound of their voices as they pass. Did ever crowd 

 of students seem more hilarious? Did ever more careless 

 thing play easy with the elements? One sings, and then 

 another. Hear then all throats together. Here a cluck 

 and there a tremolo, then back and forth the slogan goes 

 till the disappearing huddle leaves in its wake vibrations 

 that have softened the winds and set the w aves to tune. 

 To-night when all is still in the cabin you may hear those 

 voices of the morning when no birds are near. When you 

 are at home in the city, a strange, weird music will come 

 as you sit before the grate fire in the twilight. The chim- 

 ney winds have caught the cadence of the voices of the 

 brant, and looking into the gloom of the room you will 

 see again the moving wings that float adown the ceiling. 

 'Tis the shadow of vibrations that have come from the 

 far off bay. No others can hear the sound or see the 

 motion. 'Tis for you alone, this delight of wandering 

 impression that comes through miles of shadow, to you 

 sympathetic. 



Upon a narrow sand bar lapped by the receding waves, 

 Captain Jack and I step out, to be saluted by the jets of 

 forty clams. We will not forget this recognition on their 

 part when it is time to return the boat. In the sand bar 

 there is a sunken box just big enough for me to hide in. 

 Its edges are level with the surface of the sand, excepting 

 where the last high tide wanted out some of the sand to 

 make little wavy ridges with. Captain spades up fresh 

 sand to hide the box with, and while this is being done I 

 walk to a higher part of the bar that has not been under 

 water for three or four tides. The wind has thrown the 

 light sand into waves and ridges just as the water would 

 have done it. So wind and water are good chums off on 

 the Bay. Here is a bunch of old wrack that pulled a 

 scollop shell from its quiet bed, and came to grief on the 

 bar. Here is a dried bit of leathery devil's apron that 

 was torn from an ocean meadow perhaps by some derelict 

 hull roving in the faintly lighted depths without commis- 

 sion. Here is a cork that once was young and tender 

 bark in Spain, growing under the Southern Cross until men 

 bargained for it with money. Then it perhaps saw one 

 carousal after traveling to foreign shores, and it will be 

 buried on this cold bar by shifting sands. Here is a 

 feather that was shaken from the wing of a goose yester- 

 day, when I was not as near as this to the goose. All 

 about in the sand are tracks of plebeian gulls, but here is 

 something better; here is the patrician track made by the 

 pretty black foot of a brant. 



I lie down flat upon my back in the box. The brant de- 

 coys are standing all about so naturally that only the 

 Captain and I would suspect them to be such false things 

 I am waiting. The box is cold and wet. The spray flies 

 into my eyes. The surf roars in the distance. One eye 



peers over the edge of the box and scans the horizon. 

 What a jingle of wings was that as a beautiful whistler 

 and his homely mate passed overhead . They have finished 

 the preliminary love experience early in the year, and are 

 now constant and true to each other long before the 

 spring zephyrs have felted into love the vagarious fancies 

 of other water fowl. How strange that the male should 

 be. the most beautiful among almost all living things ex- 

 cepting the people. And yet the male whistler, superb as 

 he is, had to seek his mate and go through a lot of non- 

 sense just as though she were a beautiful girl. 



I did not shoot at that pair of whistlers. They would 

 have made ah excellent stew, with pork and potatoes in 

 the same pot; but they were so happy with each other 

 that I allowed them to pass. It makes my mouth water 

 now to think of them for dinner, but the treason is all in 

 my stomach and not a bit of it in my heart. Flocks of 

 brant are moving down the bay in Btraggling bunches or 

 in even lines. Some oysterman has stirred them up, or 

 perhaps they think that the eel grass is more tender fur- 

 ther on, and they will enjoy it until it seems to be not 

 quite so good as the grass that they left. Few people 

 know why the brant move back and forth in this way, 

 but I know just how they feel, because I have many 

 times camped on one end of a pond and always found the 

 fishing best away up at the other end, no matter which 

 end I camped on. Thus the eel grass in the distance is 

 always green for the brant. 



Four brant are coming this way. Are they coming this 

 way or will they choose some other bar? They are win- 

 nowing along low over the water and apparently looking 

 for companions. I throw up one foot to attract their at- 

 tention. They see it. They slacken speed and "lift" for 

 a better view. Yes! They see the decoys. Look out now! 

 On they come and bigger they grow. At first they were 

 no larger than pigeons, now they are as big as ducks, and 

 in a moment more they will look as big as rocs, before my 

 very eyes, and right here with me — all of us active — in a 

 few cubic feet of the world. They have ability to be else- 

 where, but they won't use their resources in time. They 

 will be right here in the midst of the trouble. They call 

 to the decoys. I answer. How fine and black their shapely 

 heads and necks. What strong brown wings. They are 

 coming. Now they swerve to the northward. There they 

 circle back, showing white flanks as they wheel into line. 

 They are not coming. They are going toward the middle 

 of the bay. See that persistent one. He wants to come 

 to me and the others do not, but that one is so determined 

 that the others weaken in their good judgment and follow 

 him. Now they stop fluttering. One sets his wings, 

 another sets his wings, all four set their wings, and come 

 slanting down an easy incline of air right toward the de- 

 coys. Neck and neck, wing and wing, tail and tail, on 

 they come. Up I jump and breed confusion. "RonJc!" 

 says one, and down through the smoke he tumbles with a 

 mighty splash. "Kruk! Kruh!" says another, and then he 

 makes the spray fly ten feet into the air at the edge of the 

 bar, and causes the clams to squirt for rods around. 

 "B-r-ci-n-t! B-r-a-n-t! B-r-r-r-a-n-t!" say the other two, 

 swishing themselves right up into high air. Yes, brant 

 they are, and beauties, too. 



The March wind is piercing, the box is damp, the flying 

 sleet rattles on my coat. 1 lie upon my back listening to 

 the lapping of the waves, the crepitation of shifting sand, 

 the rustle of the moving tide and the voices of distant 

 brant and gulls. The cold clouds overhead have no com- 

 fort in them. My teeth chatter and a tear runs down my 

 right cheek. Wet sand sticks to the skin between my 

 red fingers. One small mouthful of just the right thing 

 suffices to start in my innermost depths a dull cherry red 

 glow that gradually diffuses itself in grateful warmth to 

 the middle of every bone and to the ends of my wet 

 sandy fingers. Who would object to that, I'd like to 

 know? Now then for another brant. There comes one 

 from away up the bay. Is he going or coming? Coming! 

 No — going! Well, it Tall depends on which end his head 

 is placed, and I cannot tell from here. He is coming! 

 Bigger he grows and rounder he appears, and being alone 

 will seek company. He sees the decoys and comes straight 

 toward them without regard to the direction of the wind. 

 Now he stops flying and cjmes tilting along unsteadily 

 on curved set wings, balancing, sidling, balancing, com- 

 ing, growing -bigger and bigger as he skims the foamy, 

 splattering waves without quite touching them. I'll let 

 him alight. There, now I Right on the bar between me 

 and the decoys. How trim his outlines are, and how 

 gracefully he walks for one of the goose family. Why 

 do those bright dark eyes fail to perceive me? He is 

 young, as his wing coverts show by their ashy tipped 

 feathers, and knowing that age is to be respected he puts 

 confidence in the old decoys, unwilling to believe that I 

 am terrible. He scoops up a billful of sand here and 

 there where it looks particularly tempting and asks the 

 decoys something in a low voice. Now, I must take him 

 into the box, for other brant will be coming. He jumps 

 almost like a woodcock as I show him a great jack-in-a- 

 box, and— Halloa! Right barrel snapped; left one shot a 

 little under as the wind slanted him to one side. There 

 he goes as fast as ever he can, away, away, away. I never 

 saw that brant before in all my life and never shall see 

 him again. 



Out of the west horizon a corps of twenty brant comes 

 marching along through the ah, as orderly as soldiers. I 

 throw up a hand to attract their attention. They swerve. 

 They wanted to come to this bar in the first place, but 

 they have somewhere seen some one else thrown up a 

 hand to them, and the old ganders are suspicious. There 

 are too many eyes in that flock. Some of the younger 

 birds start toward the bar again and the wary ones 

 follow. Good judgment don't count among friends. On 

 they come with a great clamor, some rising, some settling, 

 some hoarse, some clear voiced, some curving their wings 

 to sail in, some fluttering and wavering and giving cries 

 of warning. The whole flock huddles and separates, and 

 huddles and rises, and wheels to go away. Then they 

 turn and head for the decoys again, but the old birds 

 have mounted high enough to peer over into my box and 

 they cry "Look! Look!" with such vigor that the whole 

 drove again whirls into a broadside for final departure 

 nearly twenty rods away. The shot slaps and cracks 

 against their feathers, but only one bird shells out of the 

 flock and drops perpendicularly into the water, while the 

 rest choose a horizontal trajectory. Too many eyes. Too 

 far away. 



It is almost noon. The tide has fallen so far away that 

 there is no water near the bar, and no more birds will 

 come until another tide has risen. There is plenty of 



humble game within reach for the larder, though. Razor 

 clams first! The edges of their shells are just on a level 

 with the soft sand of the flat, but they must be approached 

 gently, for they are sensitive in the company of strangers, 

 and the fingers of a hungry enemy will grasp only a little 

 maelstrom of roily water unless he is careful. I seize one 

 of the razors, but how hard he pulls! Working him back 

 and forth rapidly in his hole causes the water to loosen 

 the sand all about him. and up comes a long, fat fellow, 

 twisting his white foot in efforts to escape. When we 

 work a razor back and forth in his hole the sand around 

 him becomes mushy, according to a definite plan of 

 nature, which turns the chances immediately against the 

 clam in favor of the one who ought to have him. It will 

 not do to be greedy and pull too quickly, for nature has 

 decreed that in such case the bacteria are to have the nice 

 separated foot, while man is to content himself with the 

 pretty shell containing only liver and gHis and other 

 organic bric-a-brac. It does not take long to gather a 

 handful of razor clams, but that is not enough, and I 

 cannot lay them down while gathering more because they 

 would walk off and poke themselves endwise into the 

 sand while I was looking the other way. It makes one 

 feel like a cannibal to eat such lively animals, but if men 

 are half as good as razor clams, we must be cautious 

 about criticising the habits of the Sandwich Islanders of 

 the old school. I cannot lay this handful down, so my 

 cap must answer for a basket. A fine panful of razors 

 we finally have on the deck of the sloop. Capt. Jack sets 

 up serried ranks of them in the dripping pan and puts 

 small pieces of bacon in odd nooks and corners. When 

 they are done a delicious steaming morsel lies upon a gap- 

 ing shell, all ready for a little lump of butter and a plunge 

 for the good of those chosen ones who know how to catch 

 razor clams. 



We pull the boat up out of the main channel and spear 

 a few eels. Over miles of this bottom one can strike a 

 spear blindly into the mud with fair probability of hitting 

 an eel that has stored himself up for the winter a few 

 inches- below the surface, and in choice spots two eels 

 sometimes come up at once in the tines of the spear. It 

 is taking unfair advantage to spear the half-torpid thing.-, 

 but they are delectable and that makes a difference. 

 Then again we can get revenge on behalf of the crabs, 

 for nothing is more relentless than an eel that has set 

 out to remove one by one the legs of a confused and most 

 uncomfortable soft crab. We can spare the denizens of 

 the bottom many such sights by incarcerating a bucket- 

 ful of the offenders. When there are eels enough in the 

 pail we push the boat over quahog ground, and no matter 

 how hard it blows or how fiercely the sleet drives a lot 

 of plump quahogs are soon rolling into the scuppers and 

 wedging themselves into the rake just as our fingers 

 get warm and dry. We have to be a little cautious in 

 walking about, because it is a well known fact that the 

 quahog will turn when trodden upon. 



Now for the soft-shelled clams that fired a salute when 

 we alighted upon their bar in the morning. The shooting 

 box spade turns them out of their compact moulds in the 

 sand half a dozen at a time. Tender and luscious they 

 are, and so corpulent that they cannot draw their necks 

 into the shell and close the shell at the same time. Just 

 one thing more and the larder is complete for the day. 

 We anchor in deep water between the submerged flats 

 and crack open a quahog, putting a sweet clean piece 

 upon the hook and casting the line astern. In a minute 

 the sinker has a convulsion; I give a quick jerk and then 

 bring up hand over fist a fish as flat as a flounder and 

 weighing about a pound, made of just the right shape to 

 fit the bottom of a frying pan and become nicely browned 

 on both sides when the fins curl up in a crisp. Five or 

 six flappy floundera are pulled up on deck, and away we 

 go again to our safe anchorage. Who would ever go 

 hungry on the Great South Bay? There within a radius 

 of half a mile we have helped ourselves abundantly to 

 brant, razor clams, quahogs, soft clams, eels and floun- 

 ders, and have had such fun in doing it that we want the 

 man who is prepared for suicide to come down here for 

 one day's sport before he decides that life is really too 

 much of a bother. Our hands are cold, our clothes are 

 wet, especially at vital points. Our noses and ears would 

 do yeoman service in a summer refrigerator. But the 

 cabin stove has a red hot lid, and the change to dry 

 warm woolen clothing with a cup of hot coffee will pny 

 for a month of discomfort. I am sorry for the man who 

 does not know how well off he is with his every-day 

 clothes tn. Robert T. Morkis. 



Fox Hunting on First Day. 



Lincoln, Neb. — A daily press dispatch' from St. Paul, 

 Neb., in this morning's paper says: "Frank Adams, of 

 the Union Pacific bridge gang, was fishing with dynamite 

 in the river here yesterday when a fuse, which was at- 

 tached to a piece of dynamite which he held in his hand, 

 burned too quickly and the charge was exploded before 

 he could throw it. He was frightfully mangled, one hand 

 being blown entirely off and the other nearly so, his face 

 being lacerated terribly and his eyesight destroyed. It is 

 thought he will live." 



This reminds me of my early boyhood days in Ohio, 

 when my good Quaker parents taught me that if I dis- 

 obeyed the laws of the land and of God I surely would 

 meet my punisliment. But one "First Day" morning 

 when the snow was lying about six inches deep all over 

 the land, the air soft and balmy — just such a day as one in 

 which I would like to give reynard a chase — I was on 

 my way to "First Day" school when I heard the melodi- 

 ous music of Sounder and Cap and a half dozen of the 

 lesser lights of the neighborhood across the woods. I 

 could not stand that so I took the shortest cut for the scene 

 of the chase. To head them off where I knew they would 

 cross I started down a long hill as fast as I could run, and 

 undertook to jump a ravine at the bottom of it. I alighted 

 on my heel on a snag and broke the small bone in my left 

 leg. It was some time before I could find any one to send 

 home for a horse, but finally father came, riding one 

 horse and leading the old bay mare for me to ride. AH he 

 said was, "I guess thee won't go fox hunting soon again 

 on 'First Day.' " 1 didn't, for I hobbled around on crutches, 

 for four months. But I am inclined to think that if every 

 one were punished in this State as this man was for dis- 

 obeying the game and fish laws, hundreds of cripples 

 would be found here. 



We indorse Forest and Stream's plank, "Prohibit the 

 sale of game at all seasons," E. E. 



