May io, 1913 
FOREST AND STREAM 
591 
1 3 
(MHl iM M® (IilM 
. L . 1- -. . ■ - 
Observations on a 20-Gauge Shotgun 
M ost shooters with considerable shotgun 
experience at times acquire a hankering 
desire to use a 20 rather than a 12-gauge 
gun. That they don't make the change is be¬ 
cause they doubt their ability and the change is 
expensive. Practically every bird-shot has 
learned on a 12-gauge; they know its possi¬ 
bilities and its limitations and dependable in¬ 
formation as to how a 20-gauge shoots, and how 
well one can shoot such a toy is not readily ac¬ 
cessible outside of the maker’s catalogue, and 
these are notoriously prejudiced. 
It is, therefore, worth while to jot down 
some observations accumulated through several 
years in the hope that some basis of comparison 
can be set up, and the average man can de¬ 
termine whether he belongs in .the 20 class 
without the expense and waste of time neces¬ 
sary to make the experiment for himself. 
I have shot all my life—for I didn’t begin 
to live till I killed my first bird at the age of 
eight or nine, and that was forty years ago. 
For the past thirteen years I have had a 12- 
gauge low' priced Smith hammerless that fits 
me to perfection, and that I love as I love a 
member of my family; w'ith it I can shoot quail, 
woodcock, prairie chickens and partridges under 
any conditions a little better than I ought to. 
In other words, it kills at times when it ought 
to miss. Ever had a gun like that? But. as I 
give a good deal of time to shooting, and have 
very dependable sport in a southern club, have 
for some years felt I ought to shoot a 20-gauge; 
so, four years ago I presented one to my boy, 
W'ho was then a shooter in embryo—si.x years 
old. By this my self-respect w’as preserved, for 
I could try it out on the sly, and still keep 
“Sweet Love” near by for emergencies. The 
first autumn I used it in \brginia in company 
with “the best shot in America” (the quotation 
is my own). I missed abominably, shot low', 
killed raggedly, and was frequently greeted with 
such commiserating comments from my friend 
as: “You are losing your eyesight, old man— 
you are getting out by age.” This went on till 
my last morning in the field, when after a nasty 
miss or two. and a howl of ribald laughter, ac¬ 
companied by “nothing the matter w'ith the 
gun—it’s the man behind the gun,” I retorted, 
“Gus, for God’s sake, let’s change guns, and let 
me find out where I actually am.” The change 
w'as made, and Gus missed five birds out of six, 
and killed his sixth like a school boy w'ith a 
smooth bore. I got five straight with his 
spatterbox, and w'e both sat down to study. Gus 
hit upon the trouble maker almost instantly— 
the trigger pull w'as too heavy, and made us 
both slow and nervous, flinchy, as it were. 
First lesson: Don’t try to shoot a 20-bore 
W'ith a trigger pull of more then three to four 
By H. E. W. 
pounds. Returning home, I had no further 
chance to use the gun that year, but the open¬ 
ing of the season in 1910 saw me again in a 
stubble field in Virginia, with my 20 in the 
case at the farmhouse and dear old “Sweet 
Love” under my arm. She was as reliable as 
ever, and I suppose I averaged 60 to 70 per 
cent, for several days. One afternoon I re¬ 
luctantly tried the 20-gauge, and to my surprise, 
killed birds with w'onderful success and speed. 
I don’t recollect, though I keep a record of 
every shot, but am quite sure I killed six or 
seven birds straight; it was open and easy 
shooting, of course, and I suppose the strength 
gained from using a somewhat heavy gun for a 
W'eek or more made me handle this gun with 
greater facility. I then put “Sweet Love” away 
in her case for good, and have never shot a 
12-gauge since, except at ducks. 
My experience the past three years has been 
greatly varied—each season I have a rotten 
spell—this year the worst of all. The past two 
years I have had a guest each year, different 
men. both cracks, and both using a 20-gauge 
for the first time last year. My guest used the 
gun three days, then gave it up in disgust and 
went back to his 12 that he fortunately had with 
him. This year my friend began fairly well, 
but got worse, and his last few days were worm- 
eaten and bitter: he only had one gun and I 
two 20s. Fle tried his gun and mine, and then 
his ow'n again, but all with the same results— 
rarely more than one on covey rises, and then 
either misses or ragged kills on singles. I w'as 
shooting a little below my average, but far 
better than he, until the last day he was with 
me, when I began to fall off. The day after he 
left I got eleven out of twenty-one shells, and 
the next day six out of twenty-eight shells—the 
worst I had done in years. The following day 
I got four with ten shells in the morning, seven 
with fourteen shells right after lunch, when I 
had a big covey scattered in open ground. I 
did everything I could think of—aimed care¬ 
fully, carried the gun through after the shot, 
watched my footing, led the bird, and worked 
every device known to an experienced shooter 
who gets to missing unaccountably. I was not 
discouraged for I had passed through just such 
things before with the 20 and “came back,” 
though without being able to account for my 
trouble. All at once the truth came over me. I 
saw the whole trouble, and said to my guide, 
“Sam, now look out. there will be some busi¬ 
ness doing from this minute on.” Sam doubt¬ 
fully nodded. “Well. Mr. W.. sompin’ ought to 
happen, I never see you shoot so bad.” Well, I 
got the next ten straight—second barrel on two 
—and am out of that slough for life. 
The fact is we all were in the same diffi¬ 
culty. As long as we shot freely and con¬ 
fidently, taking the natural advantage of our 
light-weight gun. we killed our birds—smothered 
them, in fact; but when we began to be care- 
