458 
FOREST AND STREAM 
September, 1919 
THE ROLLING FIELDS OF SOMERSET 
MEMORIES OF UPLAND PLOVER SHOOTING IN NEW JERSEY WHERE UNTIL AS LATE 
AS TWENTY YEARS AGO. GOOD BAGS WERE MADE OF THIS FAST DISAPPEARING GAME BIRD 
F or the past fifty years the migratory 
game birds of this country have de- 
creased at an alarming rate, until 
many varieties, plentiful then, are now 
nearly exterminated. This has been the 
sad fate of that delectable bird, the up- 
land plover. In my youthful days they 
were very numerous. Many, many times 
in showery weather in August in early 
morning, or late afternoon, have I heard 
that liquid bubbling ventriloquous whistle 
descending from the sky and gazing up- 
ward, discovered the bird high in the 
heavens, outlined against some dark rain 
cloud, looking no larger than a swallow, 
and then again would come rippling 
down that mellow call. I have always 
found them extremely shy and wary and 
very difficult to approach. Many hours 
have I spent stalking them on the clover 
fields, or crawling low along the potato 
rows, or stealing as silently as possible 
through the growing com. This is the 
one game bird, if any, that it is per- 
missible to shoot on the ground, for it 
is very seldom, be as clever as you may, 
that you get closer than forty yards. In 
the years of plenty, while there might be 
twenty of them in a large field you would 
seldom see two together and it was prac- 
tically impossible to make a large bag 
even under the most favorable conditions. 
So when I had been successful, I would 
come whistling home, as country boys al- 
ways do under like circumstances, know- 
ing that I had something pleasing for 
Mother, who was famous as. a game cook; 
for be it known that the upland plover is 
a great dainty when properly prepared 
and second only to that king of all table 
birds, the woodcock. 
Few indeed of the present generation 
of sportsman know of the joys of up- 
land plover shooting, for to most of them 
it is but a tradition; but speak of it to 
an “old timer,” and his dim eyes will 
light with enthusiasm, for this sport, in 
the real home and breeding ground of 
the bird in the northern counties of New 
Jersey, has a luxurious ease and charm 
never to be forgotten by the favored one 
who has once enjoyed it. For many 
years it was my good fortune to spend 
the opening day (the first of August) 
on the rolling grass fields of Somerset 
County. Here, even as late as twenty 
years ago, in certain spots known to the 
favored few, good bags could be made. 
The method employed was unique, the 
shooting being all done from a horse- 
drawn wagon. The best results were ob- 
tained from a canopy topped surrey 
drawn by a span of horses; this, with a 
careful driver and three congenial shoot- 
ers, made the ideal combination. Full- 
choked guns and strong loads were neces- 
sary, for almost all the shooting was 
at long range. Given this desired com- 
bination,. with a clear August day, and 
a reasonable amount of shooting, the 
BY WIDGEON 
riding over the expanse of rolling clover 
fields, the beautiful farm homes, the 
shaded nooks and roads beside the mur- 
muring brooks and streams, the luncheon 
hour in some secluded spot, the drive 
home in the glowing sunset, made an im- 
pression that would never fade from a 
sportsman’s mind, if he had anything of 
an artistic temperament. 
A t the foot of my street in my native 
town, dwelt a popular member of 
the medical profession, Dr. Garret 
H — He had moved there with his 
wife and family, then four girls and a 
boy, from northern New Jersey some 
The upland plover. 
five years before, and a warm friend- 
ship had immediately sprung up between 
us for we had many tastes in common, 
we were both professional men, and both 
loved the rod and gun, besides we were 
both members of the same fraternal so- 
ciety. Many very pleasant hours have 
we spent together at the traps, for we 
were both fairly good shots, and usually 
made the “anchor” in the club tourna- 
ments that were the vogue in those days. 
In summer, such hours as we could steal 
from our business in early morning or 
late afternoon were spent in weak fish- 
ing on the beautiful Raritan Bay, and 
in autumn, we could occasionally get a 
day with the quail and rabbits. The 
doctor had many times extolled the 
charms of upland plover shooting, and 
one morning in early July, as we were 
fishing, he said, “Say, Neil! let’s try 
the plover on the opening day.” I re- 
plied, “Doc, that’s a capital idea, and I 
am with you.” The first of August came 
on Monday and we planned to drive out 
on Sunday morning to our objective 
point. We were away bright and early 
over the stone road to Old Bridge, then 
on through New Brunswick, for about 
four miles to the little hamlet of Frank- 
lin Park, which we reached in time for 
church. Some four miles from this place 
the Doctor was bom and grew to man- 
hood. When he graduated from Medical 
College, he here hung out his “shingle” 
and began the practice of medicine and 
in a few years married the “Belle of the 
Country side,” the beautiful daughter of 
one of the prosperous neighboring farm- 
ers. Here he also became very popular, 
as was evidenced by the “levee” he held 
after church service, at which nearly 
every member of the large congregation 
shook his hand. I was introduced to 
many of his friends, and in particular 
to the gentleman who was to be our 
host, Mr. Irving H — the doctor’s cous- 
in, and soon we accompanied the young 
man to his home. He was the only child 
of a wealthy gentleman farmer, and lived 
in state with his widowed mother in their 
luxurious mansion near by. He was 
fresh from college, and had been much 
“petted” by his doting mother, but he 
was a very agreeable and interesting 
companion, a thorough sportsman, and a 
good shot, and has made good and served 
his county with distinction in the State 
Legislature. After a short drive we en- 
tered the H — grounds by a broad 
avenue, over which grand shade trees 
cast their cooling shadows, and presently 
came to the house surrounded by artistic 
lawns and gardens. Here, at luncheon, 
“Irvey” (as he was affectionately termed 
by his many friends) introduced me to 
his mother, and we lunched in state, 
served by the dignified colored butler. 
The afternoon was spent in an interest- 
ing tour and inspection of the large farm, 
the stock, and kennel of shooting dogs, 
and we saw and heard many plover. We 
also inspected and admired Irvey’s in- 
teresting collection of curios and 
mounted birds. After dinner, as we sat 
in the evening shadows on the broad 
veranda, while Irvey and the doctor en- 
joyed their after dinner cigars, the doc- 
tor asked about the proposed shooting 
route on the morrow. 
“Why, Doc,” Irvey replied, “I think we 
will start in right north of here, at the 
corner, where you saw those large clover 
fields, then work across the county line 
into Somerset, then in a broad semi- 
circle, cross the canal and river, so around 
by Belle Mead to Wyckoff’s farm, where 
we will have lunch, shoot there in the 
afternoon and back here to an early sup- 
per, which will let you reach home be- 
fore midnight.” 
Presently we walked out to the car- 
riage house, where Irvey had his jet 
