Aug. 27, 1904.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
178 
Among the Shore Birds. 
BY EDWARD A. SAMUELS. 
"Come," exclaimed one of my friends, as he entered 
my office hurriedly one day, "pack up and join me for a 
week or two among the shore birds. It is almost time for 
the first flight of plover from the north and I like to be 
early on hand to receive them !" 
"Plover!" I replied in dismay, "bless your soul, man, 
it's no use to look for those birds in our old hunting 
grounds ; they fight shy of Provincetown, Nantucket, and 
Martha's Vineyard nowadays, and to get a decent bag 
one has to go far to the north, and I have no time for a 
long journey, and I have a lot of work that must be 
done." 
"Nonsense!" was the response that came from my 
friend, "let your old work go; 'twill make no difference 
a hundred years hence, and neither of us may expect to 
get many more outings among the plover, and the 15th of 
August, the date that is usually agreed upon by the birds 
for their coming from the wilds of Labrador, is near at 
hand. So come on, get your traps ready, and we'll start 
day after to-morrow, sure. I want to be on the ground 
by the 10th, and be ready for the first flocks, which often 
make their appearance in advance of the main body of 
them as early as that date." 
"But where do you propose to go, provided I can get 
away?" I answered, dropping my pen in bewilderment at 
my friend's impetuous way of extending an invitation. 
"Really, you had better count me out this time. I want 
to finish this piece of work as soon as possible; and be- 
sides that I don't know where my decoys are packed, nor 
what the condition of my ammunition box is. I'll have 
to give it up this time." 
"Give up nothing," was his hasty rejoinder. "I want 
you for this trip, and you may as well, without any more 
palaver, make up your mind to come. You have fifty 
weeks to write in, but only one or two in the whole year 
for plover shooting; so pack up and join me. I won't 
take "No" for an answer ; the trip will do you no end of 
good. So come along. I'll meet you at the Grand Cen- 
tral Station Thursday evening in time for the Boston 
train, which leaves at 9 o'clock," and as he spoke he 
hurried to the door and was about to leave, when I 
exclaimed, "But, my dear fellow, I cannot get ready on 
such short notice I can't go, anyway !" — but my protesta- 
tions fell on deaf ears, for my friend had gone. 
For a short time I sat in perplexed meditation. I 
wanted to join him and I knew the trip would benefit 
me, for I had had a long spell of hard work and was 
feeling rather seedy. But to get ready for a lengthy 
journey, procure ammunition, and hunt up my decoys, 
without which the trip would prove unprofitable, seemed 
to me to require more than a two days' notice, for it was 
then Tuesday. But the more I thought about the matter, 
the less insuperable seemed the obstacles to my going; 
and finally I arose from my desk somewhat excitedly, 
and exclaimed: "Hang it! I'll go; the work can wait 
as well as not !" 
My decision to take the outing, when once formed, 
called for speedy action, and the intervening time was 
fully occupied in procuring ammunition, loading shells, 
overhauling my guns, and doing the thousand and one 
other things required for an outing such as was proposed 
to be taken. 
"I knew you would decide to come," exclaimed my 
friend, heartily, grasping my hand at the entrance of the 
station, where he was . awaiting my coming, "and I'm 
mighty glad of it. We'll have a glorious time, even if we 
don't get many birds." 
After seeing my baggage checked for St. John, N. B., 
we entered the sleeping car and were soon started on 
our long journey to the northern shore of Prince Ed- 
ward Island, where the finest plover shooting in the north 
is to be obtained. 
We reached our point of destination on the evening 
of the fourth day, having been obliged to remain at She- 
diac, near Point du Chene, over Sunday on account of 
there being no steamer on Saturday when the train 
reached that point. 
On Monday we crossed Northumberland Strait to 
Summerside, and from that place we journeyed by rail 
and wagon to' the shore. Our headquarters were in a 
comfortable farmhouse a few miles from Tracadie, the 
proprietor, a thrifty Scotchman, had entertained us once 
or twice before on similar outings, and the welcome he 
gave us was hearty in the highest degree. 
Early on the morning succeeding our arrival our host 
drove us behind a pair of well kept horses to a point 
about six miles from the house, where, after assisting 
us to dig our trenches and to put out our decoys,, he left 
us for the day. 
The surrounding country was a nearly flat or slightly 
undulating plateau, consisting of great stretches of pas- 
ture lands and old stubble fields, which extended as far 
as the eye could reach. 
The plover, on leaving their nesting places in far away 
Labrador, gather in immense flocks before starting on 
their long journey to the south. In what manner the 
individuals of the flock become associated with the 
others, no man can tell. I have been told that they breed 
by pairs in detached communities, a half dozen or more 
pairs in each, and probably each family unites with its 
immediate neighbors soon after the young are able to fly, 
and thus, no doubt, these small detachments continually 
unite with others until the aggregation of all in any 
given locality is completed — just as we see the swallows 
come together before their southern migration. For many 
days they seem to be assembling in open stretches of. 
country, particularly where meadows and marshes 
abound, many hundreds of them sometimes being seen 
circling around or perching on telegraph wires. If we 
watch them day by day, we will see their numbers in- 
crease and finally, as if by a preconcerted agreement, no 
one can say how or when the signal is given, they disap- 
pear. We know there must be some unanimity of 
thought, or instinctive motive, if you prefer, which 
prompts them to leave simultaneously for their winter 
homes on both shores, northern and southern, of the 
Gulf of Mexico. So with the plovers; we cannot say 
what prompts them to begin their southern migration 
together and at a certain time of the year, the first flight 
leaving Labrador about the tenth of August. These 
large flocks, which often number many thousands of 
birds, sweep down over the barren wastes of Labrador to 
the shore which they follow by way of the Strait of Belle 
Isle, skim along the southern shore, cross the Gulf of 
St. Lawrence, and make their first halting place on 
Prince Edward Island. I have not been able to ascertain 
whether or not many of them ever cross to Newfound- 
land, but know that quite a number do make a brief stop 
on Anticosti. The northern shore of Prince Edward 
Island, whether or not from long habit, I cannot say, is 
the first resting place they choose ; possibly because it 
abounds with extensive tracts of open country, such as 
those birds delight to forage in. For miles upon miles 
one may see great stretches of oat stubble fields and 
pastures, in which the birds find myriads of grasshoppers 
and other insects and seeds upon which they feed. I have 
seen immense flocks flying about those open stretches of 
country, rising and falling in the air, their myriads 
of wings beating in a shimmering cadence, if I may use 
the term, as if actuated by one impulse. One can hardly 
imagine a more beautiful sight than that presented by a 
flock of these birds in motion. . Sometimes they are high 
up among the clouds, and anon they skim along the earth, 
barely above its surface. Occasionally, as if by a sudden 
impulse, the flock drops wings and alights upon the 
ground, where the birds immediately busy themselves in 
search of food. 
This is more particularly true of the golden plover than 
of the black-breast or "beetle-head," which seems to pre- 
fer to forage upon the strand in pursuit of small mol- 
luscs and crustaceans, although it associates in greater 
or less numbers with the other species in quest of insects, 
seeds, etc. 
The success of sportsmen among these plover depends 
on the location of his trenches, the manner in which 
his decoys are put out, and his clever imitation of the 
call note of the birds. The plover will rarely turn from 
their course at every whistle, as will some of the other 
shore birds, for although it is gregarious, it does not 
seem eager to associate with other species. 
I have time and again had curlew, yellowlegs, and 
various other species, come to my plover call, and even 
have had the Wilson's snipe fall to my yellowlegs whis- 
tle, but I cannot remember the time when a flock of 
golden plover turned from their course to come to me 
when I blew a whistle not their own. 
The note of the plover is a short, melodious, piping 
one, unlike that of any other shore bird, and when a 
large flock is in motion it is only now and then a cheerful 
little twitter is heard from among them. 
The trenches that were occupied by my friend and 
myself were about fifteen rods apart; they were dug 
lengthwise with the side of a slight acclivity, and were 
long and deep enough to give us ample room to move 
about comfortably ; the bottom of each was covered with 
hay and at one end was a raised shelf to be used for a 
seat, and at the other end another upon which our am- 
munition bags, etc., were placed. Behind us was the great 
stretch of pasture land I have spoken of, and in front of 
the trenches the land descended gradually to the shore, 
which was about a mile distant, and beyond that the blue 
waters of the great gulf glistened in the rays of the 
morning sun. 
Our decoys, which were about fifty in number, were 
put out in front of our trenches, and in several scattered 
groups at favorable points between us. These decoys 
were of my own invention, and I' have always found 
them to be very successful. They were made in the fol- 
lowing manner: A block of wood was modeled of ex- 
actly the same shape and a trifle larger than the body of 
a. plover. This was sawed in two lengthwise and from 
the two halves iron castings were made which served as 
matrices or molds for stamping or embossing from thin 
tin the two sides of the decoy. These were fastened to- 
gether at the back by a hinge and at the belly by a 
wooden stake, which was thrust through two holes in 
the tin that overlapped each other, the lower extremity 
of the stake being pushed into the ground to support the 
bird ; the stake being longer than are the legs of the 
plover naturally, so that the decoys might be plainly seen 
above the surrounding herbage. These decoys were 
painted in the colors of the bird, and they so closely 
resembled them that even an experienced eye would, at a 
short distance, be deceived by them. The advantage of 
these over the ordinary wooden or rubber decoys, aside 
from their close resemblance to the bird they counter- 
feited, no matter from which direction they were viewed, 
laid in the compactness with which they could be stored 
away; for when the wooden supports were removed and 
the sides opened out flat, the number of decoys might be 
laid upon each other in very small compass, the height of 
the pile being increased only by the thickness of the tin 
of each successive layer. 
The warm rays of the August sun before noon had ar- 
rived beat down upon us relentlessly, and the heat seemed 
to have had a somnolent effect upon bird life, for there was 
not only an absolute dearth of those shore birds, but even 
the smaller species — sparrows, swallows, etc. — seemed to 
have abandoned that almost treeless waste. The only 
feathered visitors we had before the sun reached its 
meridian was a pair of impudently inquisitive crows, 
which, contrary to the usual nature of the bird, were as 
unsuspicious as barnyard fowls. 
They alighted among the decoys and scrutinized them 
in a comical way, and finally approached the trench in 
which I was lying so closely I could have tapped one 
of them with a salmon-rod if I had it. Even when I 
showed my head and shoulders above the edge of the pit 
they manifested no fear, and I silenced their noisy cries 
only by pelting them with a handful of gravel, which 
volley drove them away. I did not care to waste a car- 
tridge on them; if I had, their clamor would have been 
silenced forever. 
"This is pretty dull music," exclaimed my friend, who 
had, a little later, left his trench and joined me. "We 
are evidently a day or two ahead of the plover, and there 
is hardly a bird moving. I've kept a sharp lookout, and, 
excepting a few small bunches of 'peeps' and now and 
then a yellowleg,' I've seen nothing. I move that we take 
our lunch and a bottle of 'Bass' over yonder," pointing 
to a little clump of stunted pines a quarter of a mile 
away, "and take our snack in what little shade there is. 
The sun is hot, hot, hot." 
I gladly acceded to this proposition, and we repaired 
to the spot he had indicated, carrying with us not only 
our edibles, but a couple of guns and a few cartridges. 
We have always found it a good plan to provide for 
birds coming even when none are in sight, for one never 
knows when a flock may appear. 
Our noonday meal having been disposed of, we lighted 
our pipes and enjoyed a brief siesta, which, however, was 
abruptly broken by the shrill whistle of a curlew high in 
the air. Glancing skyward, we discerned a small flock 
circling around, apparently scrutinizing our decoys, 
which stood in expectant attitude two or three gunshots 
below us. 
"There's a bunch of doe birds," exclaimed my com- 
panion, and they are going to our stools. What a lovely 
time we'd had with them if we were where we ought to 
be in the trenches. We can't get down there now with- 
out being seen, but if we hide in the scrub here perhaps 
we can call them. We may get a long shot at 'em, and 
possibly drop one or two, and thus save getting 
'skunked.' " 
As he spoke he put his bird call to his mouth and gave 
the peculiar whistle which every shore-bird gunner 
knows so well. 
The doe bird, or Esquimaux curlew, like the sickle- 
bill and Jack, or Hudsonian curlews, is a very sociable 
bird; it quickly answers to the gunner's whistle, and 
stools in the freest manner possible. 
Like the others, it is also very sympathetic, and 
responds to the cries of a wounded comrade, the flock 
hovering around the spot where it lies until the last bird 
is dropped. In its love of company, it associates with 
many of the other species, little bunches of three or four 
often being seen in the midst of a flock of plover. 
In its flight it is one of the most graceful of the shore 
birds, its long wings beating the air with a rhythm 
peculiarly their own. Like the golden plover it subsists 
on insects, seeds etc., and as a table bird is a great 
favorite with epicures, far exceeding in that respect our 
other two species. 
My companion's whistle was repeated again and again, 
but without any apparent effect on the birds, for they 
hung away persistently, and seemed determined to settle 
among our decoys, and we were just at the point of 
leaving our cover with a view of getting within shot of 
them, when, by one of those inexplicable whims which 
birds often manifest, they wheeled and advanced in our 
direction, uttering at the same time a whistling twitter 
such as this species often emits when foraging in the 
marshes. 
"We'll get a shot at them after all," exclaimed my 
friend. "It may be a long one, however." 
"Yes," I replied, "they're coming, and to make sure of 
reaching them, I'll slip a wire cartridge in my left bar- 
rel," and as I spoke I removed one of my ordinary shells, 
replacing it with one of Ely's green cartridges loaded 
with No. 6 shot, such as I always carry with me when 
out for birds; they are valuable in an emergency. 
In leaving our decoys the curlews came a short dis- 
tance in our direction and then swung away to the right, 
