Oct. 26, 1912 
FOREST AND STREAM 
521 
Cooting on Cape Cod 
U 2 KUM.” 
That’s all there was to Lon Green’s 
postal card message, but it was suf¬ 
ficient. Had he written a ten-page letter, credit¬ 
ing him with the inclination and ability, he 
couldn’t have conveyed more. 
For weeks I had waited for that word, 
waited anxiously, for on it hinged an outing 
that I had been looking forward to for a whole 
year. And the word just left me by the letter- 
carrier was that the birds were flying down off 
the Kendal Harbor shore. Cape Cod, and flying 
good, or Lon would not have written. 
Lon is one of the natives of the place and 
earns his living by pulling lobster pots, fishing 
and odd jobs ashore. He knows the coast in 
the vicinity of the Cape like a book. Brave, 
courteous and on the square with all, he is one 
of those princes in disguise which we run 
against now and then in unexpected places. 
So much for Lon, good fellow. As for my 
chum Stuart and myself, for the next half hour 
after receiving that postal card, it was hustle 
and bustle with 11s. We couldn’t throw our 
duds into our small trunk fast enough and de¬ 
pend with any degree of accuracy that every¬ 
thing was there. Rubber boots, oil skins, 
sweaters and gloves, along with shells, gun 
tools, oil and other toggery were jammed into 
that trunk with wonderful rapidity. Two hours 
later, guns under arm and precious trunk 
aboard, we were seemingly crawling down to 
our little Cape town destination on the only 
express train that goes over the line, off from 
the city for a three days’ trip. 
It seemed an age before we got our first 
whiff of the good salt sea, an odor that sets the 
blood of the live man tingling, while from the 
car windows we could see the surf rolling in on 
a far distant yellow beach. That first sniff and 
sight of old ocean banished all thoughts of dull 
care left behind and took a dozen years off our 
shoulders. 
My! How that train did drag. It was more 
than two hours later that the little Kendal 
Harbor station came to sight. The brakes had 
not ceased grinding when we were out on the 
platform, and there waiting to greet us was 
dear old Lon. Sea clothes and hat and his 
old don’t-care air, but the same old boy, heavy 
of mitt and strong with the “How be yer, boys?’’ 
Happy? Well, you can just place it that we 
all were. It was a pleasure to be there. That 
annual greeting and handshake each fall at 
Kendal Harbor station is something historical. 
It was a two-mile drive in the vehicle 
termed in local politeness “the stage,” to Lon’s 
home on the ocean front and little harbor that 
gives the place its name, but any horse can 
walk the distance and we eventually arrived. 
Mrs. Lon was equally as glad to see us as 
her husband; even the baby honored us with a 
squeal, and we were soon “all hunky” in the 
guest chamber, none of us being strong on cere¬ 
mony. It was off with the store clothes and 
into duds, and if the latter did not look well, 
they felt so. There’s something about old 
clothes that gets me every time. And best of 
By GEORGE O. ALMY 
all, as we dressed, we could hear the call of the 
ocean—booming, sloshing, ker-chunking and 
slamming as the waves washed and tore at the 
breakwater and bar that nearly locks the harbor 
mouth. 
Naturally, with such music to stir our 
blood, we were anxious to get out and down to 
the shore, but Mrs. Lon had cooked a big din¬ 
ner and she would not hear of it. You know 
how it is with women after they have been 
tinkering over a stove all the morning. And 
then, we were a bit hungry. That salt air, you 
know. 
But every good thing has its end and so 
did that dinner. Not long after we were down 
on the shingle beach looking over the situation. 
And situation is a good word, for the rollers 
were coming in something grand, breaking- 
three and four times out from the shore before 
the final crash on the beach. Over the break¬ 
water hung an almost continual haze of mist 
and foam as wave after wave tossed its shat¬ 
tered arms high into the air after vain effort to 
wrench apart the massive stonework. Truly, a 
spectacle for the artist or camera man, but a 
poor outlook for the gunner. I knew from ex¬ 
perience that it- was all off for that afternoon, 
and Lon confirmed my forecast. 
“I hate to disappoint you, boys,” he said, 
“but this sea is pretty nasty. We might venture 
it, but outside there’d be no fun and we might 
get more than we bargained for. You know 
what an upset would mean in this water and 
at this time of year.” 
Yes, with rubber boots, oil skins, heavy 
clothing and a pocket full of shells in a Novem¬ 
ber sea, I knew what it would mean, and having 
some personal regard for my own carcass as 
well as for the feelings of those at home, was 
satisfied to take Lon’s word for it. 
So it was land for us that afternoon, but 
over in the marshes we knocked down a wood¬ 
cock and a couple of partridges. And there was 
a big red fox that I blindly stumbled on to. 
This meeting was such an unexpected and de¬ 
cidedly unusual occurrence, I having almost 
stepped on Reynard as I was forcing my way 
through the waist-deep grass and underbrush, 
that I clean forgot to fire at him until he re¬ 
appeared in a little opening fully 200 feet away. 
Then we all gave it to him and the air fairly 
sang with the lead, but though we ruffled him, 
No. 5’s at that distance made no serious im¬ 
pression. He gave us a grin, put head down 
and tail up and bade us a polite but final good 
day. That episode will never pass from my 
memory. 
Did we sleep that night? We did, making 
up for a deal of nights and lost sleep. The 
gusts of wind that tore over the roof, rattling 
a loose shingle here and there, played a lullaby 
that locked us fast. “That fox,” I always refer 
to him thus, caused me to dream and in my 
slumber I had that afternoon’s hunt all over 
again. But this time the fox did not run. I 
fired and fired but could not bowl him over. 
Finally we came to close quarters and the brute 
had me by the shoulder, when Lon's hand 
reaching through the partly opened door nearly 
landed me out of bed. 
“Hey, you lubbers!” he exclaimed, “are 
you fellows dead? I have called you twice. 
Are you going cooting or are you going to lie 
abed all day? Come, now, get up. The wind 
has gone down and we will have a grand day on 
the water.” We then tackled Stuart, who was 
still sleeping as unconcernedly as if he were 
home in bed on a Sunday, and dragged him out 
of slumberland. Of course, it was dark. New 
England November mornings at 4:30 o’clock al¬ 
ways are. Over in the East the sun was cast¬ 
ing its searchlight along the horizon, just a 
TWO THAT WOULD HAVE PASSED BY. 
