Forest and Stream 
Six Months, $1 50. 
$3 a. Year, 10 Cts. a Copy. 
NEW YORK, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 11, 1913. 
VOL. LXXXI.-No. 15. 
127 Franklin St., New York. 
The Flight of the Little Gray Coots 
W HEN I was a boy and lived down in 
Harpswell, Maine, a little town charm¬ 
ingly situated on Casco Bay, the little 
gray coots were always the first ones to arrive 
in the fall, and were as a usual thing fairly 
tame. In those good old days nobody thought 
of cooting with anything smaller than a io-bore 
gun, and if a man was fortunate enough to 
possess an 8-bore, so much the better. The way 
those old salts used to mow down birds with 
their big bores was something scandalous. No. 
2 shot was the popular thing in that line, and if 
a man so much as hinted at a No. 4, he was 
scoffed at unmercifully. Single Ts they used for 
geese, but then nobody employed blinds or live 
decoys, so in order to get a shot it was neces¬ 
sary to scull to everything, resulting in long 
shots, hence the use of the big lead. 
I recall one late September morning when 
Frank rushed into my house with that old bat¬ 
tered io-bore of his. “There’s a bunch of coots 
off in Ash Cove,’’ he informed me, fighting for 
air. 
That was enough, the effect was electrical, 
and springing to my feet I yanked my old 
double io-bore out of the corner, and hastily 
thrusting handfuls of shells into a big “ferkin,” 
kept in readiness for just such occasions. We 
left on the jump. 
It was only the work of a few moments to 
stick up the foresail of my grandfather’s old 
“pinky,” and as we cast off the halter from her 
stem, the brisk southwester caught the big canvas 
squarely, and we bounded forward, her blunt 
prow smashing the waters into a foaming white 
V. It seemed scarcely a minute until we had 
rounded the end of Bar Island, and letting out 
the “sheet” a few turns, we stood up the cove. 
Coots invariably rise to windward, and being in 
possession of this valuable piece of information, 
Frank steared the craft accordingly. 
Crouching in the bow I sighted the birds 
as they buoyantly topped the big waves, and 
commanded Frank to keep her close on the 
wind lest we should run too far. to the north¬ 
east. We were about a hundred yards from the 
birds when they dove, and noting that they were 
heading down the bay as they went under, I 
told Frank to head a little to the southward, 
then rising to my feet, stood in readiness. 
It seemed an age before they came up, and 
when they did they were well bunched. With 
a smashing splash they took wing and rose 
prettily. “B-bang!" I pulled the triggers so 
A Casco Bay Yarn 
By FRANK L. BAILEY 
near together that it seemed almost like one re¬ 
port. Birds tumbled in all directions, when 
Frank opened up from behind the foresail, kill¬ 
ing three and knocking down two cripples. For 
the next ten minutes we had our hands full pick¬ 
ing up dead birds and shooting cripples. I think 
we got them all but one. We fired twice apiece 
at that one, but couldn’t seem to bring him 
Finally we gave it up, satisfied with the nine 
already in the.boat. 
Close hauling on the wind, we headed down 
the cove, and rounding the end of Basin Point, 
stood up the Back Bay, running “dead afore it.” 
Occasionally, we heard muffled reports from up 
the Bay, telling us that some of the boys were 
busy in that locality. This was just what we 
wanted—somebody to drive them down. 
Over under Little Whaleboat Island we 
sighted a bunch of “white wings” coming along 
at a lively rate. Several times they circled, then 
took the water with a mighty splash, sending fine 
jets of spray over their glossy backs. Setting 
our course a little more northerly, we bore down 
on them at a smashing clip. They were wild, 
however, and rose a good eighty yards away. 
We gave them four guns and succeeded in drop¬ 
ping one bird. He was crippled, and led us a 
merry chase. We got him, though, after squan¬ 
dering some half dozen shells. Numerous flocks 
passed, going either side, but none stopped with 
us. 
Over under Goose Island shore we met Will 
Getchell, and “spoke ’ him. He said he had 
fifteen birds. Not bad for one man, but Will 
was sure some gunner. At the northeast end 
of the island we passed an old fellow and a boy 
in a green "Hampton” boat. They were just 
sailing on to a flock of "horseheads,” and we 
watched their maneuvers closely, hoping to gain 
a few points. That kid was steering like a 
veteran, when the oid man stood up in the bow 
and blazed away with a single barrel. Laying 
this down hastily, he seized another, and yet an¬ 
other. This was one way of doing business. 
Evidently he had not become a “convert,” and 
still persisted in going cooting with an arm full 
of muzzleloaders. Flow many times when a boy 
have I seen the men starting for the shore, a 
WILL SAID HE HAD FIFTEEN BIRDS.” 
