FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Nov. 24, 1906. 
WING SHOOTING WITH A CAMERA-ROBIN SNIPE. 
Eastern shore of Virginia. Circling over decoy. Several are dropping. 1/1000 second exposure. 
From the National Geographic Magazine, Washington, D. C. Copyright, 1906, by Geo. Shiras 3d. 
8 lO 
beside the steamer dock. A dozen or so men 
were there, and it seemed a good opportunity to 
Rusk to demonstrate the engine’s value to fish¬ 
ermen, crabbers and oyster tongers. But the 
engine was perverse. Having come to a stop, 
it refused to be exhibited. The crowd gazed on 
the futile efforts to start the engine and dis¬ 
cussed the merits of the outfit. Some said it 
was the engine, some the engineers. What was 
the matter we didn’t know and couldn’t find out. 
While Rusk studied and I looked and tried to 
understand, there came from the dock the sound 
of voices raised in debate. Above the rest two 
gained the center of attention. One swatted the 
other on the nose, and the swatted one rushed 
to get a piece of oak board about three feet 
long. At this the other drew a knife with a 
4-inch blade and opened it, backing away and 
twisting his face till it showed the mingled 
emotions of fear and anger. Sight of the knife 
brought the other to a standstill, and they stood 
cursing each other, while peacemakers flocked 
to the rescue and argued that knives and clubs 
were no weapons for fighting, and begging that 
the two go at it with their fists, “like men.” 
Later the man with a hurt nose drew Rusk 
to one side and told him that the fight was due 
to the engine, and that the hurt man thought he 
deserved the gift of an engine for standing up 
for it. 
“You didn't stand up straight enough,” Rusk 
remarked, and the man passed on. 
Fishermen were coming in with strings of fish 
—white perch, catfish, shad and an occasional 
ring perch or yellow ned. Fishing had just be¬ 
gun to be good. A few days before the rumor 
had come up the bay that there were shad at 
York Spit, then one was reported at Hooper’s 
Island. They came closer day by day, until one 
came in to Cambridge. The fishermen went to 
their nets a-quiver with anxiety. Finally every 
one had caught their first one or two. Then 
came the “catch,” and one met men and women 
passing along the streets with plump roe shad 
hanging from splint stringers. 
Our task was to find out what was the matter 
with the dynamo which refused to make the 
engine go without assistance from the storage 
battery. Repeated trials failed to bring any re¬ 
sults. Then we noticed that the dynamo called 
for a speed of 1,500 revolutions a minute. A 
little figuring showed that our motor was giving 
only 1,200 revolutions—the dynamo pulley was 
an inch too large. This had to be remedied, and 
a trip to Cambridge was necessary to get an¬ 
other pulley. The new pulley was all right, but 
the shaft hole was an eighth of an inch too 
large. It took five hours to fit a brass collar on 
the shaft, but that fault was finally corrected, 
and at last the engine was all in whack. We 
were ready for a journey down the Big Chop- 
tank to Taylor’s Island, where Rusk hoped to 
preach the doctrine of gasolene to the baymen. 
Rusk was once a professor of elocution, and 
in his day he had given entertainments here and 
there on the continent. He recited dialogues, 
told stories and gave some impersonations of 
schoolboy singers. It was funny, but perhaps 
the funniest thing of all was his giving an im¬ 
personation of one of the little audience 
gathered in Win Murphy’s sitting room without 
the victim quite realizing it. This was his fare¬ 
well appearance at Secretary, so to speak, and 
the following morning I cast off, he started the 
engine, and away we went down Secretary 
Creek, at the rate of about four miles an hour. 
Our voyage was actually begun. 
Finding a Man. 
A clergyman summering in the Adirondacks 
had gone one day far into the wilderness pros¬ 
pecting for a camp site, fishing ground, etc., for 
himself and a friend expected soon from the 
city. Returning homeward the prospector 
stopped at an old hunter camp. After visiting 
the spring he sat down in the shade on the rough 
platform to rest in true backwoods style. It was 
nearly 4 P. M. and hot; he would wait till 4 
o’clock and resume his march. Suddenly a man 
came out of the bushes and called, “Can you tell 
me where I am?” approaching as he spoke. 
The answer was, “I think so. As nearly as 
I can calculate yon seem to be right here.” 
“Well, where am I on this map?” (drawing a 
U. S. survey map). 
“Can you tell me that?” 
“I think so,” and it was done. 
“Well, I came from - lake this morning 
and was told to fish down the river to a bridge 
and the team would meet me at 3 o’clock. How 
should I get there?” 
“I am going up that way and will show you 
the way.” 
“Well, I’m as glad to see you as though I had 
known you for thirty-five years.” 
He had missed the bridge because it was not 
in place this year, and had wandered on until 
he became lost some miles from where he wanted 
to be. He was wet, tired and nervous, a lawyer 
from one of our up-State cities. 
“Do you think the team will be there?” he 
asked. 
“Did you pay the driver this morning?” 
“No!” 
“Then don’t worry. He’ll be there.” 
He was and they rode home together. 
Juvenal. 
Woodmont is a shore resort on Long Island 
Sound near Milford. Conn., famous for its wild¬ 
fowl shooting. F. S. Downs, of Milford, writes 
that on a recent morning fifteen members of the 
New Haven Gun Club bagged eighty ducks. 
Three of the sportsmen got 22, 14 and 12, re¬ 
spectively. 
The scarcity of ruffed grouse in parts of 
Minnesota is attributed to the shooting out of 
season of young birds in the summer months. 
Duck shooting, however, seems to be good, 
there being an abundance of wild rice, which 
is reported as a failure in places further north. 
