Feb. 13, 1904.1 
FOREST^ AND STREAM/ 
127 
ever, we did not see him. 
Two big bucks in one day made a pretty satisfactory 
record. The boys were remarking that it was rather 
strange that Mack's buck did not fall until the third shot 
struck him, when S. B. told what happened to him one 
time while hunting in the same vicinity. 
"One day near our favorite gorge I saw a sudden mo- 
tion which I believed was made by a deer. Sure enough, 
for all ef a sudden out sprang a large deer, which I shot 
at, after catching a good sight. Another deer then sprang 
from the same vicinity which I shot at and wounded. 
Running about twenty rods the second deer stopped and 
seemed to hump itself up in a strange manner. I shot at 
it again; and it still stood there in the same position. 
Thinking it strange if it was not hit, I slipped in a third 
cartridge and fired a third time. This time the deer went 
down. On going up to it I found three holes through it, 
The second shot that was fired passed through its body, 
and it never moved. It was a large doe, too heavy for 
me to hang up, but pretty soon the Colonel and my 
brother John came along and helped me to take care of it. 
I told them that I believed I had hit another, and wc 
proceeded to look for signs. Presently we discovered 
blood, and soon came across another very large doe — in 
fact, the largest I have ever seen in my life. It weighed 
180 pounds, and it kept all three of us busy to hang it 
up." 
It was late that night before the party turned in, as 
there were many other stories to tell, and the hours 
slipped away without being noticed. But when the older 
ones commenced to yawn and fix their beds, the . yarn 
spinning ceased. Fresh venison with some thin slices of 
pork were cut for breakfast, potatoes made ready, and a 
goodly kettle of coffee provided for, and then the god of 
slumber was wooed as only he can be in the great pine 
woods after the toil and excitement of a good day's hunt. 
The bright stars twinkled above the solitary camp, and 
the busy brook sang some of its choicest songs, as it 
danced on its way or bubbled noisely around the big 
boulders. Later the moon peeked out over the tops of the 
trees, and smiled in a kindly way on the home of the 
hunters, and, as if to show how nature bestows on her 
faithful followers her richest gems, she turned to silver 
every tree and brush and stick as it stood there in its 
covering of white. But the tired men slept on, only to 
wake when old Sol had hurried over the ridges and trans- 
formed the sheen of silver into the grandest display of 
precious stones; until every frosty particle shed forth all 
the colors that delight the eye. How good the hasty 
wash in the icy water made the boys feel, with what keen 
relish they ate their breakfast, and ^ith what eager an- 
ticipation they shouldered their guns can only be appre- 
ciated by those who have been there. Carolus. 
[to be continued.] 
Sn'pe Shooting on Shinnecock. 
Do YOU know Shinnecock Bay fairly well? Do you 
know that part of the bay between Quogue and the life- 
saving station at Tiana? and how well do you know it? 
Can you crawl out of bed some fine August morning — 
say about 3 o'clock — and find your way to the bay shore 
anywhere in the vicinity of East Quogue, and at some 
point, for example, near Weesuck Creek find your 
scooter or small gunning boat, stow away forward 
your lunch pail, gun, box of stool and water (cover these 
with your oiler, for that little boat of yours is given to 
taking in water if the wind should breeze up a bit), hoist 
>our sprit sail, and lay your course cocksure to your 
favorite gunning point? 
Now, this seems to be a very simple matter -if one has 
any knowledge of the bay; given a decently favorable 
wind it should be quite an easy thing to do. 
I do not intend debating the question for a minute, but 
I shall relate how you walk down to the bay in the early 
morning all eager for the fray (the walk is just long 
enough to open your eyes after a short but sound sleep), 
with your lunch pail, oiler, and shells (you have taken the 
precaution to put your stool with the water jug into the 
scooter the night before, if you were wise), but with 
heavy_ rubber boots, gunning coat, etc., you find that the 
walk is plenty long enough, and are glad when you are 
in your boat and with a very gentle breeze — hardly any, 
in fact — you slowly move out into the bay. 
Did you ever notice how still everything is down there 
at this time in the morning? And how blessed dark? 
What wind there is comes, say, from the southwest this 
morning. 
Now where are you going? You know the favorite 
gunning points in the bay and with your early start have 
a good chance to pick a fairly good place. You make up 
your mind to try Hong Kong Channel — that's easy, no 
matter how dark it is — you surely can't go far astray; but 
it is very dark, and it does seem as though everything 
was turned around. You may have discovered a light in 
the Walker House, some gunner, perhaps, getting ready 
to go out; you chuckle to yourself as you imagine him 
rubbing his eyes, looking for his belongings, thinking of 
your own experience only a short time before; at the 
same time you take advantage of his light — it will help 
you a lot to make Hong Kong at one fell stroke. You 
.are now quite confident that you can lay your course 
right to the channel, especially now that you can just see 
the dim outlines of a sail leaving the shore, bound, as 
you know, for Rack Channel ; this gunner is there every 
morning, and you can judge your course by his if you 
can keep his sail in sight. But as you draw out into the 
bay familiar outlines disappear, the light you so depended 
upon has gone, and it is impossible to follow the sail 
bound for Rack. You are now entirely upon your 
own resources, and your knowledge of the gunning points 
in Shinnecock is soon to be brought to a test. 
You are moving slowly but surely with just a gentle 
ripple of water playing round your bow; there is hardly 
any motion, hardly a sound ; once in a while you may hear 
faintly the call of some waterfowl in the distance, but 
everything seems painfully quiet. Now, that part of Shin- 
necock is not so wide; it's a small bay, comparatively, 
not more than a mile and a_ half across to the gunning 
points ; it should be quite a simple matter, I can hear you 
say, to make Hong Kong Channel. You intend to. go to 
the west of "Dry Bar," anU after you once sight that 
point, or I should say, bog, you are all right. How it 
does loom up in the daytime ; have you ever noticed this 
especially? It would seem almost impossible for you 
to miss it even on a dark night like this; you are quite 
confident in your own mind that you will soon find it; 
feeling sure from the course you have taken that you are 
right, on you go; the boat has been increasing its speed 
ever since you started, and you should be across^ soon, 
but from all appearances you are still well out in the 
bay. Every now and then a small wave comes aboard 
over your bow, indicating that you are still in deep water. 
No sign of any shallow water. No sign of anything. 
Where are you, do you know? You don't know, you 
might as well own up; you are disgusted.' 
You are heading for the beach side of the bay, of that 
you are sure. Shinnecock light gleams on you down east, 
and that is about all you know. You could swear that 
you were heading right for Hong Kong, and have kept 
your course, and you should now be in shallow water on 
the flats. "Hello, what's this— a bog dead ahead I Where 
in the world am I ?" You head your boat into the wind 
to the lee of the bog, put your feet overboard — it's quite 
shallow here, only about a foot of water, muddy bottom, 
and bogs all around. Nothing looks natural or familiar — 
nothing but darkness, through which you can just see 
outlines of strange bogs and meadows. Hark, you hear 
voices to leeward. You recognize the high squawk of 
the gunner east trying to find his boxes, and the paralyz- 
ing fact dawns upon you that you are 'way east of Hong 
Kong and must tow your boat to that point, as you can't 
very well go there on this wind. So there you are, 
chagrined, fearful that someone will get there first, and 
in a most uncomfortable frame of mind. How in the 
world did you get thtre? Don't ask me — I don't know. 
Ask the winds and other things — the stars, the light in 
the Walker House — don't ask me. I never could solve 
conundrums of that sort ; don't ask the baymen, they 
would only laugh at you and think it a fine joke. Keep 
quiet and tow your boat. You will find that it goes much 
easier with the centerboard up through the shallow places 
into Hong Kong. I have tried both ways, and consider 
myself an expert in this particular line of seamanship. 
Now, don't swear and get discouraged; to be sure, it's 
quite a pull from where you are around into Hong Kong, 
and riot the best of walking, so on you go, and you are 
getting hungry and thirsty, too. Aren't you glad you 
brought along that big stone jug of water? Yes, yes' 
My, how warm you are, too. Oh, well, you are getting 
on, you can see now on either side of you the bogs just 
at the end of Hong Kong. You tow your boat through 
them, and head toward the beach. _ Now, on this wind, 
you say to yourself, I should rig quite well in; so in you 
go toward the drain. Ah, well, here is the spot at last, 
and you are glad to get there. You let your boat run by 
you into the grass, draw yourself up, face south, and take 
in a good long draught of old ocean air. How fresh and 
invigorating it is ! I can see you now taking out the mast, 
toting it ashore with the sprit sail, pole and all, and 
bringing your boat well into the little bay where you are 
to construct your blind. 
Soon you have your stool out and your boat well hid- 
den, and it's really quite a job to hide that boat; it takes 
some time to pull clumps of meadow grass up by the 
roots and plant them around you in such a way that you 
will be satisfied with your hiding place. But you are well 
into the bog, and the long grass protects you fairly well. 
You will notice a faint tinge of red in the eastern sky, 
and objects around you are beginning to put on tangible 
shape; your decoys are beginning to show up well, and 
seem to be nodding to you as the quickening breeze sends 
small ripples of water through them. Shinnecock light is 
beginning to look like a large candle in the distance, 
growing dimmer as the dawn approaches. A tiny wren 
hops on to the reeds in front of you and cocks his little 
head on one side, probably wondering what sort of a 
lunch you are going to divide with him during the 
day. 
You are now sitting comfortably in your boat on your 
stool box, your gun on one side ready for the first sound - 
of the snipe. The wind is growing stronger every minute, 
and you keep your eyes and your ears open to leeward, 
but how thirsty and how empty you feel ; you must have 
a bite of something. Now, did you ever in your shooting 
experience — as you will this particular morning — open 
your lunch pail, take from it a nice chicken sandwich so 
daintily prepared by your wife, and just as you are fairly 
under way with your first or second mouthful, suddenly 
hear that call which once heard is never forgotten — ^the 
metallic call of the yellow-leg? I can see you now, your 
frantic endeavor to clear your mouth — were you ever in 
such a fix ? Good gracious ! what a whistle you give 
forth. You know you were always rather pleased with 
your yellow-leg call, but now you tremble as to what the 
result will be. But yellow-legs are not very particular; 
they hear you and answer. You can hear their call grow- 
ing stronger every minute. There they are, well to lee- 
ward, heading your way, perfectly sure that your wooden 
frauds are some of their kind, and, eager to join them, 
they circle off to windward, turn and come down the 
wind with wings set, eight fine yellow-legs rolling softly 
to each other and to their new-found friends. Your whis- 
tle is by this time in better working order, and you can 
answer them softly. Now they are quite sure of them- 
selves, and turning with a graceful sweep are well over 
your stool. You will agree with me that this is a very 
critical period — will you try for two with your first? 
Sometimes they come in such a way that this is easily 
done ; but don't try it — take one. You will do this. Bang ! 
your bird is down. Bang ! Another and one cripple in 
the water bobbing his head from side to side. The 
others are in the air, and to all appearances have made 
up their minds to make their next stop somewhere in 
the vicinity of Cape Hatteras, but they hear your whistle 
again and the call of the wounded bird, and you can see 
them waver— will they come back? You are nervously, 
reloading your gun, doing your best with that sandwich 
whistle of yours, and sure enough they turn, calling; 
they circle again, set their wings, and are now very near, 
will soon be over your stool again; here they are up in the 
wind and hovering right over your decoys; they can't 
stop, they would like to do so very much, but the water is 
too deep for them. You know this, and if you don't it 
shoiiW make m difference, Bang! You have . another. 
and should have had the next clean, but he is down on 
the meadow and not feeling very well. 
The others have gone. Your visit this time is limited 
to two calls, you have five out of eight, providing you get 
that bird in the meadow, and you have done fairly_ well. 
You are inclined to find fault with your non-ability to 
get the whole bunch, and charge it to the whistle defect. 
You have done well, so be satisfied. As you pull up your 
boot tops and wade out for your birds, a smile of satis- 
faction plays over your face, a comfortable sensation per- 
vades your system; you get your cripple on the meadow, 
although not until you have brought him down with 
another shot; he seemed to gather strength over there 
waiting for you, and had just enough left to make a final 
struggle for his life. 
Now tell me, has not even this experience paid you 
for all your trouble, your early rising, your scrambling 
about in the dark, and your blundering about down be- 
low? I am sure that it has. I can tell from the way you 
handle your birds — placing them carefully under cover, 
admiring their plumage and condition — that you are a 
good sportsman, and that the working of that little bunch 
of yellow-legs has given you pleasure enough, even if you 
get nothing more to repay you for your early morning's 
experiences. 
Now back again, you are in your boat ; by this time the 
sun is well up and it's beginning to get quite warm, and 
your thirst once more calls your attention to the lunch 
pail. I should like to ask you if it will be possible to 
commence operations in that direction again without a 
slight trace of nervousness on your part? You remember 
your last whistling effort, and I am sure that with your 
next mouthful anxiety is depicted on your countenance. 
I can see your furtive glances to leeward, the sudden 
stoppage of your jaws as perhaps you hear a faint whistle 
from some gunner east — upon my soul I don't believe you 
know what you are eating 1 You can see a long distance 
now, and should birds call can locate them better; you 
can eat your breakfast in peace, and how good it tastes. 
Your wife has prepared the lunch for you; she knows 
how melons taste out there, chicken sandwiches, nice 
fresh bread and butter, and perhaps a little beach plum 
jelly or preserve; it goes well, I assure you. And I 
think you will agree with me that a bottle of coffee (or 
if you don't wish to carry a bottle, fill the upper part of 
the lunch pail) is most desirable. Did you ever say, upon 
opening your lunch box, "Good gracious ! My wife has 
put up enough for four," and ever reflect how much you 
carried home with you? Isn't it quite astonishing how 
one's appetite improves out there? 
Eight or ten sharp, quick, short whistles in the minor 
key bring you down into your hiding place as far as you 
can go with a jerk. A jack curlew, by all the gods ! You 
can hear his repeated call in the distance, growing 
stronger; he flies rapidly and is anxiously looking for 
real comrades. Now don't misunderstand me, he is not 
so darn sociable as to take up with everything he sees; 
you know that. You can see him away down east coming 
like a train of cars. Will he go down to the gunners 
there? No, he is over the beach banks to windward of 
them and can't hear their call; you try your metallic 
whistle, which does very well with jack, it's very pene- 
trating and if anything will make that "cagey" bird turn, 
that whistle will do the business. He sees your stool, 
and you may congratulate yourself that you have several 
of his kind out. Now it's always a good idea to have a 
few jack stool out — say four or five — they are large and 
make a great showing; put them well outside your yellow- 
legs. Jacks like their own kind; this particular jack cur- 
lew acts as though he were anxiously looking for some 
friend who has an appointment to meet him just about 
where you are, and he has but a very few minutes to 
spare; his flight is nervous and quick; he circles back 
and forth high in the air, calling continually, evidently 
looking everywhere for his friend. Isn't it a trying time ? 
You have your gun clutched nervously, knowing that you 
must shoot the second he comes into range ; if you wait 
for this beggar to come down and hover gently over your 
wooden images, you may be mistaken — you can't depend 
upon them. Suddenly, with one quick swoop, he is down ; 
he circles again to windward, calling frantically. Don't 
wait for him to stool well ; he is wild ; he comes down the 
wind waving his long bill from right to left, looking for 
that friend of his. Don't move or you are lost; he is 
going to come through your stool; he turns, his mind is 
made up, he is sure everything is as it should be. What 
a big chap ! Take your time now, it's easy to miss even 
a bird of his size. Wait a minute; there you are now — 
bang ! down he comes, dead as a door nail. That was a' 
good clean shot. I was glad to see you slip a No. 8 into 
your gun when you heard his first call; they can carry off 
smaller sizes quite well. Isn't he a beauty? You get 
something when you bring down a good fat jack. I see 
you now in the middle of your decoys, standing there in 
the water admiring that fine bird, your gun tucked under 
your arm, and so perfectly satisfied with yourself that I 
really hate to place you in an awkward predicament again, 
old man, but yellow-legs are right over your head. Not 
a sound did they make; the first thing you know of their 
nearness is when a glance shows you ten or a dozen birds 
setting their wings to windward of you and coming for 
you head on. 
Reader, shall I draw the curtain, or do you still wish 
to see the fun? What are you going to do, old chap? 
You must think quick; in about five seconds your think- 
ing will be of no particular account if you wait until then. 
The boat is, say, twenty good, long paces from you. Shall 
you try to reach it and get under cover? It's too late; 
you crouch down to the water, calling softly to the birds ; 
they are tame as chickens; they pass you to leeward; now 
turn and will come within gunshot at least. Hear them 
rolling to you — is there any prettier music than that ? 
They are everywhere now, and you must take what you 
can get. Your being out there has broken up the bunch 
in such a way that they seem to be all over the place. 
Your only chance is to pick your single bird. They are 
criss-crossing all around you ; you can get two, at least. 
Let them havie it now — bang! bang! — and two are down. 
The rest are off. You scramble back to the boat, 
whistling as you go. How you do make the water fly! 
What a distance that blind of yours is away! I wish I 
had a snap shot of you, as, with gun in one hand, your 
jack in the other, you are making desperate effort^ tq 
