632 
FOREST AND 
STREAM 
December, 1920 
UNDER STRINGING GOOSE FLOCKS 
NOW ENTER THE DAYS OF PURE EXHILARATION WHEN THE 
HUNTER IS RESPONSIVE TO A HOST OF FRESH SENSATIONS 
By ARMOUR BARBOUR 
W E were bound for Shinnecock 
Bay. Hedged about with clust- 
ei’ed gun cases and baggage, we 
sat impatiently puffing our pipes. 
Trainmen shouted, doors banged, our 
express jerked into motion and roared 
away into blackness. From the tunnel, 
we burst out into soiled daylight 
streaked with reeking factory smudge. 
Dingy streets flashed by to vanish and 
changing country showed increasing- 
evidence that another goose trip was 
an immediate reality. Huddled clumps 
of houses whirled past at lengthening 
intervals. Withered remnants of su- 
burban gardens gave place to fields, 
brown with dead stubble. Rusty corn- 
shocks leaned amid serried clumps of 
black, weedy hills. Occasional glimpses 
of dull, leaden water showed through 
the skeleton trees; and, now and then, 
arms of the sea stretched their border- 
ing sedge back through the lowlands. 
Wintry light faded slowly from the 
flying landscape, and frost lace traced 
across the streaking darkness behind 
our car windows. We edged away from 
their chill radiations while we measured 
the flight of miles by the rythmic crash 
of wheels on rail joints and switch 
frogs. Gradually, through open ventil- 
ators, crept the salt breath of the sea, 
fragrant and clean off the marsh. 
Finally the brake-shoes screamed shrilly 
as our train slid into Quoque and we 
stumbled down the car steps. 
Fine powdery snow sifted down be- 
yond the station canopy rattling like 
sand when it struck the frozen earth. 
After the hot smoker, the sudden cold 
stung bitterly as we bundled into the 
black interior of a hack. Several ema- 
ciated mail bags tumbled around our 
feet and the driver goaded his animal 
into motion. Wheels squealed on dry 
snow and clattering hoofs shattered the 
silence as we jolted away into the dark- 
ness. After a reflective consideration 
of the gun-cases, our charioteer in- 
quired if we were “goin’ goosin’.” Ap- 
parently gratified when we confirmed 
his deductive effort, he added, “Ought 
to be a flight tomorrow. Wind’s drawed 
up easterly and weather’s moderatin’.” 
Our frozen hopes thawed suddenly. We 
fired batteries of eager questions. The 
shooting had only been fair. Rafts of 
ducks were in the bay but few geese 
were flying. We chatted until the vil- 
lage lights twinkled like low hung stars. 
The vehicle ground to a halt. “Here 
ye are. Good shootin’.” He left us 
standing in the night wondering how 
cold one would feel if the weather was 
not “moderatin’.” 
A yellow rectangle of light glowed 
close and we passed under its lintel into 
the welcome of Captain Jackson’s cheery 
home. Hearty greetings rang over 
warm hand grips. Oar host’s twinkling 
eyes sparkled responsive to our spread- 
ing grins. He settled himself again be- 
fore the glowing stove and remembered 
the seven geese we had killed a year 
before. The whole atmosphere of that 
generous home soothed the hunger in 
our breasts. A life lived, in the clean 
outdoors has endowed it with the spirit 
of the wild world. Snapshots of former 
kills clustered on the walls. Our roving 
eyes discovered the Captain’s, great ten 
gauge shining from its niche beside a 
walnut case full of stuffed marsh-birds. 
Jackson’s son, Howard, had been bat- 
tery shooting that day, therefore Ted 
and I made a visit to the out-kitchen. 
Our glimpse of those plump broadbills 
and the rufous sheen of a single red- 
head gleaming bright among eight 
darker birds excited vivid hopes for the 
Luck in odd numbers 
morning. “We’ll see geese tomorrow,” 
promised Jackson, as we parted for the 
night, “this cold snap is breaking up 
and they are bound to move.” 
A T three-thirty, Ted hauled me out 
of my warm nest into frigid dark- 
ness. No sounds broke the dense 
stillness except Ted’s grunts when he 
swathed his tender epidermis in some 
cold garment. All that saved my skin 
from taking away a permanent set of 
goose-pimples was the prompt applica- 
tion of a piping hot breakfast. Wrapped 
in cocoons of heavy clothing, we crossed 
the threshold and night closed about us 
like a curtain. Frosty breath stiffened 
my nostrils. Under a starless, ebony 
sky, we stumbled blindly forward, fol- 
lowing a dim, twinkling lantern ahead. 
Its rays set gigantic shadows whirling 
about our feet until we reached the 
launch. The light snow was no longer 
falling though hard crystals crunched 
under our bootheels as we found places 
on the slippery deck. Howard made 
fast the decoy boat and we moved away 
over the still water, glinting faintly lu- 
minous. The intense quiet of a sleeping 
world surrounded us, broken only by 
swishing ripples and the tinkle of needle 
ice breaking at the bow. A dog barked 
dully afar off, and, occasionally, came a 
muffled “runk” of objection from nar- 
row goose crates. After the shock of 
that first plunge, we sensed a different 
quality in the cold. Damp, heavy air 
stirred out of the southeast. 
We slipped through darkness for 
about half an hour and the clustered 
shore-lights dimmed behind us. Sud- 
denly, the engine shut off, our launch 
checked and swung around its anchor 
line. When the skiff glided away under 
the impulse of Jackson’s shoving oar, it 
vanished in obscurity. A splashed drop 
upon my cheek stung like fire. I 
strained my eyes uselessly into an im- 
palpable light which seemed to radiate 
from the water. Then, the darkness 
ahead concentrated into patchy clusters 
and we had reached our point. As. Ted 
and I rose to wade ashore, sudden beat- 
ing wings sounded close, — flapping off 
into silence. We jumped as though 
stabbed from behind. “Ducks visiting 
my decoys,” laughed Jackson,”— left my 
wood stool set out last night.” The 
ripples cut by their hurried exit circled 
back to our feet. We waded to the bar, 
— that same dry bar of cherished mem- 
ory a year before. Among the sedge, 
our boots shivered thin glass-ice clust- 
ered like frills around each stalk. We 
stowed ourselves into the boxes and 
waited for coming light while Howard 
and his father released the live birds. 
The oncoming sun glowed first on 
cloud-wrack hanging over the east and 
objects became more visible. Our lib- 
erated decoys grew distinct as they 
moved about, dashing icy water over 
their impervious backs with quick flings 
cf the neck. Just as shore lines dis- 
solved out of the grayness across the 
bay, Howard pushed away to tend us 
from the launch. Jackson drove his last 
goose-stake and came, swinging his 
arms lustily, to blow life into his. wet 
fingers as he sat in his box between us. 
A S I lay back, watching the leaden 
clouds drift over towards the 
northwest, minutes began to 
stretch long. Suddenly, three ducks 
winged overhead, silhouetted clear. The 
birds were moving at last! Jackson 
cocked one eye aloft. “Blackies,” he 
said, “too high though, won’t see us.” 
Then, after watching a moment, “they’ll 
give some one else a shot though, 
watch!” The ducks were circling to 
another point, some distance away. 
Twice they bent over those invisible 
decoys. Suddenly, one tumbled when 
two gun flashes slit the brown sedge be- 
low. Two flared up. Another flash 
showed its vanishing smoke. A second 
duck whirled dcwn, wing broken. We 
