208 
FRANK FORESTER’S FIELD SPORTS. 
in this manner, and I have heard of infinitely greater quantities 
being brought to bag. 
The record of some almost incredible number, killed by three 
guns, was published last year in the Spirit of the Times, and 
by well-known sportsmen; but I have never tried the sport 
myself, and cannot therefore speak to it. I am told, it is vastly 
exciting and amusing,—but I have been told the same thing 
about lying flat on your back in a battery, off Fire-island Inlet— 
and I can only say, judging from analogy, that it may be very 
well for once or twice, or to kill a few hours when there is no 
other sport to be had, but that it must be awfully slow work, as 
compared with any sort of field shooting, on which the instinct 
and intelligence of dogs can be brought to bear. To see them 
work is, I think, more than half the battle. 
After all, any shooting—except shooting sitting —is better 
than no shooting; and I have no doubt, if I were at Rhode 
Island, in the proper season, I should be found chaising it, as 
eagerly as any body else. I am sure I do not know why I 
should not, since older, and I dare say, better sportsmen than 
myself swear by it. 
This, then, is the connecting link between the autumn and 
spring shooting of the Uplands. For those who like them, Bay 
shooting, at all the varieties of Plovers, Sandpipers, Tattlers, 
Phalaropes, and Curlews, known along shore as “ Bay Snipe,” 
is to be had, in full force, everywhere from Cape Cod, or fur 
ther eastward, to Cape May, during the months of July, August, 
and September; and, in the end of August, Rail shooting com¬ 
mences on the Delaware and adjacent rivers; but of these I 
shall treat in their places,—since the former must be regarded 
as Coast shooting, and the latter cannot be classed with Upland 
sport, although it is only pursued inland. 
With Plover shooting, therefore, the sports of the summer 
months end; and, with the month of October, the jolliest, hear¬ 
tiest month of the whole year, despite of what Mr. Bryant says 
of “ the melancholy days” of autumn, the real season has its 
commencement ; and thereafter the woodlands, the stubbles, 
and the mountain’s-brow, are the true sportsman’s Paradise. 
