FOREST AND STREAM 
539 
Winter Wild Geese 
Narrating the Downfall of the Wily Veteran, “Louie”. 
W HEN November’s chilling winds have 
blown the dead and dying leaves trom 
off our deciduous trees, and we sadly 
realize that winter is again approaching, with 
her frost, snow, slush, and coal bills, how often 
have we watched the flight of Canada wild geese, 
as flock after flock, they winged their way South¬ 
ward. And the wish is frequently expressed that 
one might be able to migrate to the Sunny South 
along with the birds, where palm trees, oranges, 
and grape fruit grow. For of course, my readers, 
you have been told from childhood these members 
of the feathered hosts breed up north in the 
Arctic Circle in the spring, and migrate away 
down south each fall. 
If therefore I should tell you that in all proba¬ 
bility these very birds you gaze up at so intensely 
and enviously remain all winter in the province of 
Nova Scotia, it would come as a great surprise 
to you, and your knowledge of ornithology no 
doubt would receive a shock. But such is the 
case, for thousands of wild geese (all Canada’s) 
winter on the south shore of Nova Scotia, mak¬ 
ing their winter feeding grounds at Port Joli, 
Port Le Herbert, Sable River and Barrington 
Bay. From careful estimation I should say that 
ten thousand birds winter at Port Joli, while at 
the other points enumerated above, about as many 
more are to be found. 
It has become an annual custom with me dur¬ 
ing the month of February to spend a week or ten 
days at one of these spots, called Beach Point, 
and to try and outwit these, the wariest of all our 
feathered game. Never shall I forget my first 
visit to Beach Point. The heaviest snow fall of 
the season set in the day before my arrival, and 
it was in consequence of that storm that one of 
the closest calls I ever had in search of sport be¬ 
fell me. In trying to make a short cut to reach 
a sandy point, I fell into a deep creek, and my 
shooting companion, who was a step or two be¬ 
hind, reached his gun toward me, which I was 
just able to grasp in time, and by rolling and 
squirming I at last got upon solid ice. Wet to 
the neck, and with the thermometer registering 
three below zero Fahrenheit, it was no joke wal¬ 
lowing my way through the deep snow up to the 
nearest farm house a mile away, and although I 
said I was feeling all right, yet my smile was not 
upon the level. 
At this house I first met John Coffin and his 
good wife who were kindness itself, and who 
have remained dear friends of the writer ever 
since. We made it our headquarters for shooting 
trips for many seasons, but now have a nice little 
shanty in a grove of spruces right on the shooting 
grounds. 
I may as well introduce here my friends and 
shooting companion in the person of W. L. Smith 
of Baccaro, Shelburne county. Will weighs one 
hundred and ninety-five pounds, all bone and 
muscle, with shoulders like a load of hay. He 
simply does not know his strength, is absolutely 
cool under all circumstances, and quicker than a 
By H. A. P. S. 
flash of ballistite-powder, with a heart bigger 
than his body. In my book of memory many 
bright incidents with rifle, gun and rod are re¬ 
corded, and one of the brightest of them all, 
whigh will ever remain therein, happened while 
moose-hunting in the autumn of 1910. 
Will and I were in camp, having killed our 
bull, and made ready for the return to civiliza¬ 
tion on the morrow, when a party of college stu¬ 
dents from one of the large universities camped 
near us for the night. Among them was the cap¬ 
tain of a football team. After supper his accounts 
of feats of strength on and off the football field 
were listened to by my chum with much interest. 
The next morning the whole party of us “gath- 
A Backload of “Honkers.” 
ered at the river” to wash up. Will rolled up 
his sleeves in preparation for his turn, and as I 
poured the cold water from a tin kettle into his 
great bony hands, the aforementioned football 
captain exclaimed, “Gad, what arms! You must 
be a very powerful man, partner.” Whereupon 
Will replied, “Oh no, only middling stout.” 
Well, it ended of course in a wrestle. I don’t 
intend to share my pleasure with anyone not of 
that little party, so will give no further account 
of it here, save to say that when the leaves had 
settled, and the football man had exhausted all 
his pet tackles, got back his breath, and spit out 
a mouthful of moss, he paid my chum the com¬ 
pliment of saying that of all the men on and off 
the gridiron, he was the quickest and strongest it 
had ever been his lot to meet. “I don’t know what 
I would give to have you on our team,” said he. 
Will’s reply drew a laugh from us all. “I would 
like to jine ye, but I am afraid to get hurt.” 
“That’s so,” I chimed in, “and you know I want 
you to live to see me lower ‘Louie’ with a thump 
on Barrington flats.” 
It has been my privilege to shoot wildfowl side 
by side with about the best shots in the Maritime 
provinces, among them Henry Leslie of Prince 
Edward Island, Ed. Southern, light keeper at 
Peters Island, Arthur Southern of Westport, and 
Ern. Smith of Baccaro Point. While it would be 
hard to choose the best shot from among these 
men, Will Smith certainly stands out alone, and 
I take my hat off to him as absolutely the best 
shot at ducks and geese I have ever met. The 
amount of powder he burns (all black) during 
the fall and winter at wild fowl can be judged 
when I say that his winter’s supply of shot con¬ 
sists of nine twenty-five pound bags, and two 
seasons ago he had to buy an extra bag to last 
him through till spring. His gun, an old ten bore 
Ithaca hammerless, shot to pieces, loose as a hand 
sled, and rusted inside and out, he takes abso¬ 
lutely no care of it at all, except to scour out the 
breeches with sand paper so that the brass shells 
will chamber readily. But she shoots, and shoots 
to kill, as many and many a time I have wit¬ 
nessed. 
It took us two seasons, with any amount of 
scheming and study, to secure fair shooting at 
the geese, but we have a “plan” now which by 
working accordingly to condition of wind, tide 
and weather, will always give us fair returns, and 
occasionally magnificent shooting. At first we got 
sport only at high tide by point shooting, or hid¬ 
ing at some place which intercepted the flight of 
geese as they flew into water, either to Clements 
Pond, or Goose Bay, on the Clyde River, for, be 
it known, a wild goose must have fresh water to 
drink at least every twenty-four hours. 
But now we kill the greater number of birds 
on the sand flats at low tide. These flats extend 
for miles right off to the channel (which helps 
to give this arm of the sea an excuse for the name 
of harbor) and are quite hard and firm to walk 
upon. Growing up through these sand flats is a 
kind of thin, narrow, ribbony eel-grass, with hard 
yellow roots, in circumference about the size of 
a lead pencil. These roots the birds pull up and 
eat greedily. It was a great surprise to me when 
first I discovered this food supply, and the hosts 
of geese it sustained. No fatter birds were ever 
hung up for Christmas market than these wild 
geese are during the long winter months. Clam 
Point, on the Cape Island shore across the Bay, 
is another favorite feeding ground, but the rising 
tide covers this spot some time before it does the 
Barrington flats, and this fact we take advantage 
of, waiting for the flight to cross the sand and 
pass our hidden blinds. 
The ideal conditions are a northwest wind and 
plenty of ice cakes upon the flats. Then, dressed 
in white from head to foot, and hiding behind the 
lodged ice with our live decoys tethered upon the 
sand, we await the young flood, and the flight of 
geese. My first shot on these flats was fired 
under just the above conditions, and, incidentally, 
