Aug. 2, 1913. 
FOREST AND STREAM 
141 
Old Yellowlegs and the Cigarbox Tolers 
By FRANK L. BAILEY 
O LD Yellowlegs was a wily old plover that 
for three seasons had inhabited the salt 
water pond on Paul’s Point, near Stover’s 
Cove down in Harpswell, Maine. 
Frank and I had tried every ruse we could 
think of to get the old fellow, but without avail, 
and with each season we would return, a short 
stay in May, with a longer sojourn in Septem¬ 
ber, his almost incredible cunning increasing 
with each visit. 
There were other plover, beetle heads and 
the like that were prettier and would have made 
a large dish, but this old patriarch, with the long 
yellow legs and saucy cry, had defied us too 
many times; we wanted him and wanted him 
badly. 
f remember one fall I almost got him. I 
was fourteen then and was shooting a single- 
barrel muzzleloader, while my folks thought I 
was doing all my gunning with a Flobert rifle. 
I was over to the Point one Saturday after¬ 
noon, rather late in the season, when most of 
the birds had left (with the exception of seven 
ringneck in my game bag). It was a beautiful 
day, a trifle warm perhaps, and I had stretched 
myself lazily on my back on the white sand to 
wait for another shot. I must have dozed, ■ for 
the next thing I knew was the sharp cry of a 
plover, seemingly almost on top of my head. 
My eyes popped open with a snap, and there 
above me was Old Yellowlegs, his long, lean body 
stretched out, going like a bullet. I sprang up, 
seizing my gun, and with eyes half open, swung 
on his swiftly disappearang gray form and 
pulled. I thought he was coming down, but no, 
making a quick recovery he straightened out for 
Orr’s Island, while I rubbed the sleep out of my 
eyes and said things. 
I did not see the bird again that year, and 
thought perhaps he might have died from the 
effects of my shot later. But with the coming 
of May he was there again for a few days, then 
disappeared, while Frank and I premeditated his 
destruction all through the long hot summer. 
With the coming of the brisk cool northers 
in the fall, Old Yellowlegs returned. He was so 
wild that we gave up trying for him with the 
shotgun and began using the rifle. One day as 
he was stilting about in the shallow water in 
the pond, I took a rifle shot at him, filling his 
eyes with mud and water, but it was no use, he 
bore a charmed life. Then Frank and I got 
desperate. We were going to have that bunch 
of gray deviltry in the shape of a pair of long 
legs and wings, combined with a long neck and 
bill, if it took the rest of our natural lives. 
On Friday night as I stepped off the Port¬ 
land boat, Frank met me at the wharf. I had 
a new single twelve-bore Champion in a nice 
brown canvas case under my arm and a box of 
New Club black powder shells. 
On the way to the house Frank informed 
me that he had secured a double ten-bore Rem¬ 
ington. One barrel didn’t work, but the other 
would go most every time. But more important 
than all this, he had made some plover tolers, 
made them from cigar box covers, and had 
painted them according to a natural colored por¬ 
trait of a plover that had come in a package of 
baking powder. 
After we had admired the new gun for an 
hour or so, we went up to Frank’s shed to view 
the tolers. They looked pretty good in silhouette 
(providing it was dark enough), but head-on 
they appeared rather thin. Frank said the thin¬ 
ness didn’t count for much anyway; yellowlegs 
were most always thin. They were a little un¬ 
dersized and made from Pippin cigar box covers; 
they were pippins, all right. So these were to 
be the fatal instruments to lure Old Yellowlegs 
to his death. 
The next morning we were at the pond 
bright and early. Nearby we found an old 
abandoned lobster trap, and with the aid of a 
generous amount of dried sea weed, constructed 
a very passable blind. Then we set out the de¬ 
coys, six in all, placing them in such a position 
that Old Yellowlegs would get a side view, no 
matter from which direction he came. It was 
low tide and nearly all of the water had drained 
from the pond, leaving about four inches where 
the decoys stood. It was one of those beautiful 
mornings in the latter part of September. There 
was the merest whiff of a breeze stirring from 
the north, with sky and waters blue. Away up 
over Harpswell Center the clear white outline 
of the Rev. Elijah Kellog’s church spire stood 
out in bold relief from among its more somber 
surroundings of spruce and maple. A kingfisher 
sprang his noisy rattle from a dwarf spruce be¬ 
hind us, then flew out over the pond where he 
hung poised in mid air contemplating a dive. 
Suddenly my ear caught the faint note of 
a plover’s call. We studied the blue line of 
the horizon over Bailey’s Island, but could dis¬ 
cern nothing. The call was repeated; this time 
a little nearer. We had been looking too low. 
Now we could see the distant shape of four plover 
several hundred yards in the air as they approached 
from the south. We whistled an imitation of 
their notes, and the birds circled over our heads 
far beyond gun shot. We whistled repeatedly, 
receiving calls in return, then they shot down¬ 
ward. No doubt the decoys looked pretty thin 
to them, and possibly their curiosity was aroused 
at the sight of this new kind of a plover. Any¬ 
way they came, half circling the pond, then made 
directly for the decoys. As their feet touched 
the water, we let them have it. Bang! bang! 
three dropped at the roar of our guns and I 
managed to get a fresh shell in in time to catch 
the other as he was clearing the further edge 
of the pond, a good seventy-five yards away. 
Frank picked up the three dead birds—beetle 
heads.—floating on the water, while I walked 
around to the further side for the other one. 
On my way I jumped five sandpeep out of the 
coarse marsh grass, dropping three of them, the 
remaining two flying straight for the blind where 
Frank doubled up one. Securing my bird, I re¬ 
turned to the other side, and we smoked a couple 
of Bull Durhams and waited. 
Old Yellowlegs was late in coming this 
morning. The kingfisher resumed his fishing, 
and the Aucocisco whistled for her landing at 
Orr s Island. Closely following the steamboat’s 
whistle came a flock of ring-neck, their gray 
brown backs and white undermarkings glistening 
in the sun. They settled on one of the small 
mud- flats at the lower end of the marsh, and 
I went over to scare them up. As they rose, 
well bunched, I swung on them, knocking down 
five, while Frank whistled them over to the blind 
and dropped as many more. 
I had just seated myself in the blind when 
the distant four-note call of a yellowleg sounded. 
Instantly the whole air seemed electrified. Old 
Yellowlegs was coming. We knew it long be¬ 
fore he hove in sight, coming down the bay, 
and taking it easy. Conditions couldn’t have 
been better. We were hidden from view, and 
the pond was just right for feeding. We 
watched him as he approached with that you- 
be-darned air of his that we had learned to 
know so well, and held our breath. I wanted 
to answer his call, but withheld my longing for 
fear I would strike a false note and frighten 
the old fellow away. 
As he neared the pond he seemed to take 
a good look at everything in sight, then called 
again. My lips were puckered for a reply, but 
I remained silent. I’ll bet we were the most 
nervous pair of lobsters that ever hugged that 
trap. Suddenly he appeared to notice the cigar 
box tolers, and kept off. Possibly he didn’t like 
the brand. Twice his sharp cries rang out, and 
with wings well banked turned as though to put 
off across the bay. I whistled just once. That 
settled it; he knew now that those strange look¬ 
ing things were birds. Straight for the decoys 
he came in long swinging sweeps. When it 
seemed that he was coming right on top of the 
blind, we rose up. He was looking almost into 
our eyes. A real pang of sorrow was tickling 
the end of my trigger finger when I pulled. He 
stopped dead in mid air for a fraction of a 
second, then struck the water with a splash 
almost on top of the inoffensive looking bits 
of wood that had lured him to his death. With 
a yell of joy I sprang over the blind and secured 
the prize, and to my astonishment when I 
turned, Frank was standing there, his gun to his 
shoulder with both fingers on the trigger, pull¬ 
ing for dear life. ‘ The devil!” he cried in dis¬ 
gust, “I was pulling the wrong trigger.” He 
hadn’t fired at all. 
Laddie. 
E s a bit of a vagabond, same as me, 
’E’s brother to. beggars, an’ friend to a flea; 
’E’s a son of the ’ighroad, the old sea-and-sky road, 
The road that leads out to the far an’ the freel 
’Ey say it’s a wrong road—God knows, it’s a long road— 
But Lor’, it’s a song-road to Laddie an’ me. 
’E’s blind in one eye, an’ ’is tail is on crooked; 
’Is legs is too long—a misfortune o’ birth; 
But ’e’s gay as a man, an’ ’e’s true as a woman, 
An’ twice ’e ’as followed me over the earth. 
’E’s only a dog; but ’e followed me true, 
W’ich the flesh o’ your flesh won’t sometimes do; 
We ’eld to the byways, the old sea-and-sky ways, 
The ways that lead out to the gold an’ the blue! 
God knows ’ey were far ways—an’ stranger than star 
ways— 
But Lor’, they were our ways—so wot could we do? 
Then ’urry the spring! Sweep the snow from the passes! 
The roads, ’ey are callin’ us far, far away; 
To-morrow—we’ll sleep in the sweet o’ strange grasses, 
Sleep long, an’ wake slowly, as vagabonds may! 
—Life, 
