Deo. 8, 1894.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
491 
In the gray mist that shrouds the earth and hides the 
face of the waters before dawn, we got into the skiffs 
where the decoys, guns and rubbers had already been 
stowed, and sailed into the east. To the south went Mr. 
Koehler to Spence's Lump, while I went to the 
Widow's Lump. 
Bobby's noisy clack and extreme Carolina dialect 
moved us to the wildest merriment with his criticism and 
comment on our guns and attire, as we tacked and sailed 
into the wind as can only the "Car'liny" fishing boats, on 
our way to the goose lumps. Now a word from Spence 
Daniels and another from Capt. Hayman, with many a 
foreboding and gloomy comment on the wind and much 
more of the same tenor about the wildfowl, until I felt 
that the day was cast in evil form, and then the skiff 
stranded. There, far off, barely discernible, nearly two 
miles away, rose the Widows' Lump, a little island-like 
spot of sand, with just water enough to float the coop 
— 
LIVE DECOYS ON THE DUMP, 
filled with live wild decoy geese; and piling the guns and 
coats on the coop, we waded to the lump, for the water 
for miles and miles is only a few inches deep, with tortu- 
ous channels winding down the middle. 
Kb Already the streaks in the sky made us hurry to stake 
the wild geese (live ones, remember), and hurry Spence 
with his coop back to the skiff and get him away before 
the first flights of wildfowl should pass over us. 
Into the blind, because the skiff has already faded out of 
sight in the gray mist; and amid noisy splashing and 
washing one old gander is already stretching his long neck 
and straining the leather thong which ties him to the stake 
driven in the shallows out of sight. Out of the duskiness 
and gray shadows come muffled sounds as of the heavy 
wing strokes of tho flying geese, that resolve into nothing 
as we settle ourselves down to patiently wait. Brighter 
grows the daylight from behind the sandy ridges dividing 
the ocean from the sound, and the great bars shooting to 
the zenith light the watery waste into vermilion and car- 
minated blood, and a glowing red ball of fire up comes 
the sun. Involuntarily made a sun- worshipper, I rise; 
when Hayman roughly pulls me down, and points with 
gun barrels directly at the sun just suspended over the 
rim of the horizon. Lo! there, as if they were issuing 
from its glowing incandescent mass, a V-shaped dotted 
line is spread across its face — the apex in its heart and the 
ends reaching far out. "They are coming this way." 
How swiftly they fly. "Are they high or low?" But the 
old gunner says not a word, as if miles away they could 
hear the hoarse whisper, and lets his hand weigh heavily 
on my shoulder for utter silence. On they come, nearer 
and nearer; but, oh! how high. No use, they are too high 
even for the 10-gauge; but hear that old renegade decoy 
gander Iwnk-lwnk as he tries to lure his wild brethren to 
their death. The only thing I suppose the white man 
taught him. From above the leader echoes honk-honk, 
and we are afraid to move; but they go on, and I stare at 
Hayman, and Hayman mutters, "Too high," and peers 
out between the brush of the blind as time goes on. 
"See there!" but my eyes detect nothing across the 
stretch of waters. "Low down on the water coming 
from the lighthouse." "Too much for my eyes," I am 
about to say, when I see the whirling forms just over the 
water coming directly toward us. "Aye, they will light," 
as the whole twenty decoys begin to flutter and honk- 
honk, and then had the heart stopped beating and the 
breath bated as the geese alight and begin swimming 
toward the decoys 
"Mark" — "fire" — three wild geese float on the water. 
"Up and at them" — the second barrels bark and another 
goose falls as the others wing away. 
Out on the sand, Hayman takes some twigs and fixes 
the dead geese as if they were sitting on the sand — to me 
they look just as if they were alive sitting upon the nest. 
"Great Jupiter! look at that, Hayman." For across the 
heavens, line after line reaching from the easterly horizon 
to its westerly rim, came successive flocks as we crouched 
low down in the blind. Countless myriads moving 
onward, and then Hayman's hand fall heavily on my 
shoulder, backing, forcing me lower to the sandy floor. 
Far ov.er our heads a flock was circling — sailing around 
and around, answering with noisy greetings tne horik- 
Ibonk of the captive Tenegades luring them to their doom. 
Noisy converse between the clouds and the sands. Lower 
and lower they come, and just as they are about to light 
something frightens them, and then up rises Hayman — 
and I, needing no prompting, let the iron dogs bark for 
two that came tumbling almost in the box. A third one 
tumbled on the water and began fluttering away. Hay- 
man sprang into the water and put two shots into it 
before he got the goose nearly a quarter of a mile away. 
Away went the others and then, "See, that one is badly 
hurt," said Hayman, as one bird seemed to be slowly 
sinking from the flock flying away off in the distance. 
Lower, at first, three or four geese seemed to stick to the 
wounded one, but as he sank lower, the others went back 
to the flock and the doomed one sank lower and lower, 
falling slowly to the sound, the life blood ebbing away — 
badly, maybe fatally hurt, too far for us to get it. 
Deserted, abandoned and left to die. 
So it went on until we had twelve before noon, and 
then the largest flock of the day settles about 600yds. 
away on the shoals, the water barely high enough to 
reach their breasts. The decoys honked to them in vain, 
and then I rose them with the Winchester and got one 
straggler going low as they flew over our heads. More 
real enjoyment in that one feat than in anything that 
happened that; day. 
So the hours waned and the day went by, and about 4 
o'clock the signal, four shots, brought Bobby with the 
coops to the lump to take us back. We were all out of 
the blind on the lump with half the decoys in the box 
when a flock came right at us. Hayman and I sprang down 
in the blind and grasped the guns, while Bobby crouched 
behind the coop and squeezed the old renegade decoy 
gander until he honked as never honked he before. I 
named him "Simon Gerty," after the old white renegade 
on the Ohio, who in the dime novels figured with Daniel 
Boone. 
Heard one ever the yarn before, that the geese came 
and settled down among the decoys with coop and boy 
on the lump? Bobby's shrill voice, wild with eager im- 
patience, "kill um," spoiled the intended slaughter, but 
we got two, making fifteen geese. 
Sport enough for the day, and wading across the water 
we got into the skiff and sailed back to the Brant. A bath 
and a smart rub down and dinner all ready. And then 
as the boys cleaned the guns and hung up the fowls, I 
stretched out on the deck enjoying a dolce far tiiente, 
the priceless satiety of a sportsman who has had one fair 
day without mar or spoil. 
Mr. Koehler came back with eight geese and two brant 
and the camera took the picture. 
So passed the days for geese and then a day and a day 
for ducks. Down the Pamlico Sound drops the Brant 
with white pinions that never tire and willing hearts that 
beat eagerly to give the guest sport. The keeper of the 
lighthouse out in the sound rang us a friendly greeting as 
we sailed by, and we returned the salute by dipping our 
colors. The light of old Hatteras gleamed far off like a 
star, and "Bodies" light far behind may at times be seen 
between flashes, and then we sleep while we wait for 
dawn. 
What counts in sport? Numbers — never — never! Eare, 
difficult shots. Take the leader or wait for "one" and 
"five" coolly counted to line with the right and "get 'em 
both," that's the thing what tells! Quarterer, incomer- 
sky-rocket — these fill the heart with an elation which 
never comes on the mere count of the dead wildfowl 
which strew the deck at the close of the day. Birds 
enough killed to keep the cankerous disappointment out 
of the heart, and enough to send home, with a glorious 
revelry over the multitudes of water fowl flying all 
HUNG IN THE SHROUDS OF THE BRANT. 
around, and then we go back to get the promised deer. 
For the ice box in the hold of the Brant has all the geese 
and ducks we want, although we were more than a little 
disappointed that no white swan came within reach of 
the iron hail. So, satisfied with our sport that had no 
taint of slaughter to rob it of honest pride, we left the 
ducking grounds. 
Back to the club house at Eoanoke Island to eat a dinner 
prepared by Mose and get Spence and Bobby; and then 
onward for Alligator River the Brant spreads her white 
wings! Upward and beyond we pick up "Unker Bill" 
and the two best hounds in Carolina State and the Brant 
speeds onward. In a howling gale, that is piling the 
white soap-suds on the Diamonds, which strings the neck- 
lace on Hatteras' scrawny neck, and raises the witches' 
white-caps on the sound, we make the line between the 
headlands and pick our way between the frothing shoals! 
One wild gale sweeping shoreward and the tremendous 
undertow leaves sandy mounds rising out of the ocean 
where on the last tide there was water twenty fathoms 
deep. Gleaming in the sun-like burnished silver, they 
look like a string of brilliants set in emerald green, 
stretching for miles along the shore. The old residents 
call them Diamonds. 
"On Hatteras 1 shore the dead man's boots, 
Shirt and trousers are wreckers' fruits, 
And th' breakers toy, the floater's eyes 
Staring sightless— the sea-gull's prize- 
While 'Sunday dressed' with honest pride, 
He goes to church with sturdy stride." 
Early in the morning the rain is falling like a second 
deluge, and the Brant is swinging at anchor. Taking our 
guns and dogs we go ashore for woodcock and get a few 
stray ones, some robins, blackbirds and woodpeckers to 
fill the bag. A bird pie for dinner with broiled woodcock, 
baked wild goose and Car'liny yams, "fit for the king." 
Another day of pelting rain and then I make "Unker 
Bill" promise to make a try for the deer to-morrow even 
if it should be in the midst of a waterspout. Seven-up 
and Pedro, novels and yarns, with a very limited little 
game of a very wild species, and the day is numbered. 
About seven in the morning we go ashore and wade 
and flounder through the marsh and morass until thor- 
oughly tired and wet through from falling and stepping in 
holes waist deep and trying to keep from standing on our 
heads as we fall from the slippery logs, we get our stands. 
From afar comes the soft, mellow bay of the hounds, and 
then nearer and nearer until almost upon me, and then 
DEAD GEESE FOR DECOYS. 
fainter and fainter grows the ringing bay "until it dies 
away in a moan, mingling with the patter of falling 
drops. And later and later all is still. Then from afar 
the soughing of the wind blended with the patter of the 
rain and the storm is drowned in the bay of the hound — 
nearer and nearer, eager, angry, almost on me — which 
way? Bother the rain! It is coming right against the 
wind! No, it can't be, for the deer would get the scent! 
Now the baying stops; the hounds have lost the scent — 
too bad — the rain — and the moisture in noisy pats drip- 
ping down. No, there it is, angry, fierce and maddened 
— now, right in the face of the wind, the deer comes, the 
hounds on his very heels. There he is, throwing up his 
head — one bound — the sharp crack of the rifle — some 
words best express my thoughts, usually printed like this 
he is gone. There come the hounds, sharp, short 
is the yelp — on they go. Ah, silence — they got him — so 
did I. 
Don't you h'ar dat hound a-baying 
'N a snatching ob de trail, 
Ole Nest'r 's dar, 'n a-staying, 
I'll be boun' he'll never fail. 
I'm bound he'll shorely get un, 
Ise gwine ter ea t no mo' ham, 
Dis darkey '11 eat dat wenison 
Wid grease 'n punMn yam. 
"Unker Bill" comes, and thirty or forty yards we find 
the deer and the hounds licking the blood. "Uncle Bill" 
hangs up the deer and we start again. Later in the day 
I missed a better one and a better shot, but that is luck; 
and after noon we went back to the Brant. Stringing up 
the deer upon the shrouds, I got a snap shot and then my 
time is up; we started homeward. 
Geese, ducks, woodcock, robins, blackbirds, deer — 
what a royal cruise. E. J. Myers. 
In the Michigan Woods. 
Irving, Mich., Nov. 26. — A hunter in Montmercy killed 
a white deer last week and has had it mounted. 
There have been more convictions in the Upper Penin- 
sula for violation of the deer law in October than during 
the entire four years following the establishment of the 
office of game warden. Several hundred dollars were 
collected in fines from outside hunters; tons of venison 
were seized and given to poor people, and many a dog 
was shot during the chase. 
David Ickes and party, of Hastings, captured two bears 
while north hunting this fall. They were shipped home, 
and the larger one attracted a good deal of attention. 
Game of all kind is unusually scarce this fall, and what 
finds its way to market brings a good price. 
R. K. Grant and party, of Hastings, will, I believe, 
return from the north next Tuesday. The latest word 
from them reports their having shot seven deer. 
John Small, of Petoskey, went hunting with a friend 
who accidentally shot Small in the back. He died before 
help could reach him. While hunting deer L. C. Han- 
cock was instantly killed by the accidental discharge of a 
gun in the hands of J. Lafferty. Henry Miller, of Conk- 
lin, accidentally killed himself while hunting. 
Hugh Huggett, of Gaylord, recently had an exciting 
experience with a large wildcat. He went alone on a 
hunting expedition and the cat sprung for his throat as 
soon as it caught sight of him, but Huggett raised his gun 
and shot it dead just before it reached him. J. C. Yates. 
Buffed Grouse Near New York. 
Yonkers, N. Y. — Partridges are unusually plentiful 
along the line of the Harlem Railroad. I know this from 
personal experience and from many letters received from 
friends. Any one of tho many small towns north of 
Katonah will afford excellent shooting, provided one will 
engage some one to put him on the best and most likely 
cover. Millerton, on this road, two hours' ride from the 
Grand Central, is a choice place for birds. There are ex- 
cellent accommodations, and if one should communicate 
with Mr. Charles Corey, they will find him a most con- 
genial gentleman and a thoroughly well posted sports- 
man. J. T. W., Jr. 
