540 
FOREST AND STREAM 
also accounted for my introduction to “Louie.” 
For let it be known “Louie” was a goose, not in 
the sense one person would speak disparagingly 
of another, but a bird weighing eighteen pounds, 
and the wisest goose among all those that fed 
upon the Barrington flats. I was not within hand¬ 
shaking distance of him, but it was not my fault. 
It was a case of “he saw me first,” and how he 
could ever have done so he alone held the secret. 
We made out a flock of thirteen birds flying 
low and approaching us from the direction of 
Clam Point. Even at a great distance it was ap¬ 
parent their leader was of huge proportions, our 
decoys began to call, and the next second his an¬ 
swering “Honk” came from across the wind to us. 
I can only describe the sound as a deep gutteral 
call of “Louie Oronk.” I looked at Will and he 
answered my inquiring glance with a grin, spat 
out his chew of tobacco, and took a firm grip on 
the old ten bore. It certainly looked as if we 
were in for a sure close shot, but just as I pushed 
up the safety on my gun, the great bird flared 
backward and sideways, and, with a thunderous 
“oronk-louie-orounk,” led his dozen followers out 
around our blind and safely by us two gun-shots 
away. I knocked down the top layer of ice from 
my blind and stepped over to my friend. 
“That bird,” said he, “is the biggest goose that 
ever wintered in Barrington Bay. He is always 
the leader, and no one has ever got near enough 
to shoot him yet.” From that minute we called 
him “Louie,” and he became a purpose with us. 
As for myself, I dreamed of him by night and 
studied him by day, until this winter I got him. 
But thereby hangs a tale. 
A warning from Will caused me to duck intc 
his blind, not having time to regain my own, for 
coming low across the channel was a flock of a 
hundred birds or more, the curling breakers hav¬ 
ing screened them from our sight until they rose 
above the spray. A running fire of goose talk 
then took place, which if interpreted into English 
would probably be (beginning with our decoys), 
“Hello!—hurry up; good feed here.” Answer— 
“That’s all right, but why did Louie shy off and 
fly around yon honkers”? (Decoys). “Oh, 
Louie is going in for water, come on, no one be¬ 
hind any of these small ice cakes, be game. (Wild 
birds)—“Who are you, anyhow? We didn’t see 
you up north last spring.” (Decoys)—“We sum¬ 
mered in Labrador.” (Wild birds)—“We’ll fly 
up high and look down first to be sure.” As the 
flock towered they split, one-half coming my side. 
“Now,” said Will. I remember I swung with the 
leader of my bunch, and when black neck, white 
cheek patch, and black bill, disappeared behind 
the barrels the smokeless snapped. Back went the 
leader’s head until it fell upon his broad back, his 
long neck curling up like a snake, from under his 
feathers dropped his black pads, opening and 
shutting, treading the air. It took but a glance 
to know he was mine. The next two birds lapped 
together just as the other trigger was pulled, and 
as the AAA shot cut them, one fell with a thump 
close to his leader, while the other sailed off 
toward the channel with lowering and unsteady 
flight. 
Will shot his last barrel just as I turned my 
head, and I was in time to see his second bird 
tumble over and over with a broken wing and a 
shot through the head. His first barrel had ac¬ 
counted for its goose all right, for there he lay 
upon his back, looking as big as a sheep. These 
two doubles were among the finest sights I have 
ever seen. The sound of the falling geese as they 
thumped upon the sand was sweet music, and as 
time has proved, they were only the first of many, 
many, welcome thumps which have tickled my 
ears as the fat bodies of numerous Canadas hit 
the white sand of Barrington Bay. As an illus¬ 
tration of the force with which these great birds 
fall, I saw Will shoot one (an overhead shot), 
that after he smashed into the sand, the gizzard 
hung out, and he was split from the end of the 
breastbone to the vent. This was the longest shot 
at which the writer ever saw a bird killed with a 
shot gun. One pellet of 4A clipped him through 
the throat, shutting off his breath until it choked 
him. 
Flats shooting is extremely cold work, and yet 
I prefer it to all other manner of goose shooting. 
The answering call of a bull moose and the rise 
of a river salmon are familiar to me, but these 
can never give the thrill of a flock of winter geese, 
as with dropped legs and extended pads they skit¬ 
ter over the sand among your decoys. 
When no ice is available with which to build a 
blind we have overcome the difficulty by using 
Four Live Decoys Each in a Bag. 
tubs, sunk in the sand, in which we sit upon a rim 
inside, while our feet are thrust down in elon¬ 
gated boxes in the bottom. Live decoys are teth¬ 
ered between us, with bunches of seaweed from 
the shore rounded up here and there among them. 
I am a firm believer in seaweed decoys used in 
bunches about twice the size of one’s head, placed 
either upon the ice or sand, and I know of no imi¬ 
tations of wood or pasteboard that can compare 
with them. Black ducks are constantly flying up 
and down the flats, and when geese are not mov¬ 
ing it keeps one busy loading and shooting. Occa¬ 
sionally a bunch of whistlers, or perhaps butter- 
balls, dash by, tempting you until you send a load 
of goose shot after them. 
There is always “something doing” until the 
rising tide compels you to bag your decoys, tie 
together the birds you have shot, and walk across 
the sand, half a mile or more, to shore. Four live 
geese each in a separate bag, together with your 
gun, is quite load enough, especially when shoot¬ 
ing in frosty weather, and you are all bundled up 
in heavy sweater, oil pants, and coat, with hip 
rubbers, and over all a long white canvas duster; 
while six dead geese will keep you guessing as to 
their weight until they are dumped down on the 
shanty floor. The birds we shot this winter aver¬ 
aged twenty-two pounds to the pair. 
At high water, when ice is floating about the 
Bay, our scull float is used. Trimmed to resem¬ 
ble an ice cake, one takes his place in the bow, 
while the other sculls among the floe where the 
geese may be found in small flocks, or sometimes 
in a regular raft of thousands together. Condi¬ 
tions being right, the ice float is deadly enough, 
and it is fine sport to scull up to a gaggle of geese 
within easy range. We find, however, that con¬ 
stant persecution in this manner drives the birds 
out to sea and away from their favorite haunts. 
For it must always be remembered, these winter 
geese are very, very shy, and much shooting at 
them in any one manner, if persisted in, will soon 
change their habits. 
Point shooting has its fascinations, and to 
watch a flock of geese strung out, trimming along 
the breakers, and nearing your stand where you 
lie cowering in your seaweed blind built upon the 
sand point, while the force of a mighty wind 
presses the birds toward the shore, until finally, 
lifting above you, they are terrified at your pres¬ 
ence and kick and head off shore, being held mo¬ 
mentarily in the teeth of the gale, while you cut 
two of their number out, and, as the heavy shot 
rips against them, both birds let go and tumble 
almost upon you, must always remain among the 
pleasantest of your shot gun recollections. 
The aroma of steaming coffee, together with 
the song of the fry pan, wakened me before day¬ 
light in our shanty at Beach Point one day last 
February. A northwest gale dashed the spruce 
limbs against the shingles on the roof, while the 
pound, roar, and hiss of the surf upon the beach 
proclaimed a point shooting day. Rolling over in 
my bunk, one glance was evidence enough. There 
sat Will with the old ten bore between his knees, 
scouring out her breech with sand paper. “P’int 
shootin’ day, breakfast all ready, nigh daylight, 
too,” drawled he. “Better turn out.” 
In the grey light we leaned against the gale 
with lowered heads, and worked our way to the 
blind. As usual, Louie was the first goose out 
from Clements Pond that morning. Foxy old 
beggar, he led his twenty followers three gunshots 
above us, and even above the roar of gale and 
surf his “orunk Louie orunk” drifted down to 
us, and to me it sounded like derision. The rest 
of that mighty army to leeward in Clements Pond 
must have heard the warning, or else why did 
every bird, save five, drop away down below us. 
and then laboriously wing up to windward to set¬ 
tle with their leader? By ten o’clock we judged 
the flight over, and Will announced “all out.” 
Seven black ducks was the entire bag, plus three, 
which drifted by the point into the Bay to make 
food for the hungry crows along the shore. Tying 
the birds together and leaving my gun for Will 
to fetch, I started for the shanty, and had just 
gained the strip of spruces, when happening to 
look toward Solid Rock Point I saw five geese 
following along the breakers, their great wings 
working in unison, not more than thirty yards 
high. 
’Twas impossible to get back to my gun undis¬ 
covered, so dropping flat among the stunted 
bushes and beach grass I was an interested spec¬ 
tator of one of the finest examples of shot gun 
shooting it has ever been my lot to witness. Along 
come the geese, battered and pressed shoreward 
by the wind, passing me within easy range. They 
even followed the contour of the cove between me 
