522 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Oct. 26, 1912 
glimmer of its awakening, while up above the 
stars still twinkled, laughing and winking at us 
as we shivered in the chill morning air. But 
the cold helped us dress, and, despite the chill, 
there was that gladsome feeling that betokened 
the near approach of a fair day. 
Breakfast, with plenty of coffee, over, we 
were soon down to the boat landing and a few 
minutes later out to Lon’s big motorboat that 
swung at its mooring in midstream. Lon. who 
can cuss without repeating, tackled the engine, 
and to make it short, we were soon chug-chug¬ 
ging for the open sea. We were out for coots, 
and cooting at Kendal Harbor is not done from 
the shore, but from five to ten miles outside 
where enough birds can be found to make it 
worth while. 
Once beyond the breakwater we found a 
lively sea still running, not too lively, you know, 
but with kick enough to cause the motorboat 
Lizzie to throw up her nose and heels like a 
racer after a layoff. As for our two towing 
dories, they jumped and skipped about in all 
directions, each apparently trying to start on a 
voyage of its own, only to be jerked back into 
line every few moments by the painters. 
From the nor’east a breeze was blowing. 
Far out, close to the tops of the waves, we 
could see bunches of coot scudding southward, 
making the best of the favoring wind. Miles 
beyond them and high in the air, huge flocks 
of black duck filled the sky, all sails set and 
south-bound like the coot. These black fel¬ 
lows were perfectly safe, so far as the local 
gunners were concerned, flying too high and 
too far out to make it worth while to go after 
them. 
An hour of riding the rollers and we were 
on the cooting grounds, and a few minutes later, 
with anchor down and dories hauled alongside 
were doing our best to get ourselves and our 
toggle into them without shipping any more 
water than necessary. We succeeded, but not 
until after much pitching, tossing and straining, 
with a weather eye open all the time for bumped 
fingers. Finally we were all aboard and off 
to set the block and profile decoys. 
These are arranged in strings and held in 
place by anchors at either end, tide and wind 
being taken into consideration, and in rough 
water it is a ticklish job. There's a whole lot 
in knowing how when a dory is trying to stand 
on its nose or tail, or hop like a frog. And it 
is also just as well to leave the poor old ocean 
where it belongs and not try to take it in over 
the side of a boat and away from its native 
home. 
r * 
The decoys out, there was a bit more tug¬ 
ging and rowing, and then we were in place in 
a sun field back of the strings, Lon off to the 
right a few hundred feet, with Stuart and I in 
the other dory to the left. 
“Heigh-ho! Dead ahead!” Lon had 
spotted a bunch of white wings coming down on, 
us from the northward, and his warning cry 
put us down on our knees in the dory, trusting 
that our yellow slickers would fool the birds 
into thinking that we were but a part of our 
yellow-hued boat. Spread out in one long line, 
a hundred feet or more from end to end and 
about 40 feet up, their wings working with a 
clean-cut snap that an experienced eye can de¬ 
tect a surprisingly long way off, the birds in a 
very few minutes were upon us. 
Their wise old leader had spotted the boats 
and noted us early. Knowing the danger that 
lurked beneath, he gave his signal of alarm and 
mapped a course that would carry all higher 
up into safety. The bunch took the cue, but a 
dozen or so youngsters, over-estimating their 
own importance and wisdom, paid no heed to 
their leader. They swung in over the decoys 
to sort of get acquainted, wings tipped up—an 
excellent shot. 
From both boats came flashes and four 
birds went into the water with a splash. Two 
remained on top. their days of flying over for¬ 
ever. But with the splash, the other two dis¬ 
appeared with a swirl .beneath the surface, sure 
sign we were in for a chase. 
For us it was wait and watch, for the coot 
were merely taking a deep dive and would soon 
be back. The tossing waves are most deceptive; 
a dozen times we thought we saw the birds and 
brought gun to shoulder, only to find that we 
had been fooled. Finally, however, up popped 
a coot head far off our stern, while a second 
was soon showing over beyond the blocks and 
ahead of Lon's boat. Both birds swung up into 
the wind and at once started for the open sea, 
an inch or so of head and neck being all that 
was visible of them. 
It was now or never with us. and quick 
work at that, for a wounded coot in the water, 
if not seriously damaged, has every chance in 
the world of getting away. For us, it was slip 
anchor ropes, toss over buoys and a stern 
chase, with boats jumping this way and that. 
Stuart watched one of the birds while I took 
to the oars. Once lose sight of your coot after 
he starts swimming and you might as well put 
back to the anchorage. 
Now it was row, row, row, a strong pull 
and a pull all together. What Lon was doing 
we had .no time to notice. If anyone could get 
a bird he could. A couple of barks from his 
gun and a yell a few minutes later told us that 
he had bagged his quarry. Stuart soon opened 
fire from our boat, and, after the coot had dived 
two or three times, finally nailed him. Before 
we could get him into the boat, though, there 
came another warning cry from Lon. Almost 
instantly another bunch of birds was on us, and, 
despite the commotion we were making, turned 
and swung in between the boats. We gave them 
a cross-fire, but over caution for fear of shoot¬ 
ing into each other gave us but two birds. 
It was half an hour before we were back at 
our anchorages. So the day drifted on with 
now and then a bunch of coot, gray white wings, 
butterballs, etc., a banging of guns, often more 
misses than hits, but all kinds of fun neverthe¬ 
less for a couple of city chaps. As the sun be¬ 
gan to sink, going-home time, we counted a 
dozen birds—not very heavy shooting, but en¬ 
tirely ample for us. • 
Taking in the decoys was fully as difficult 
as getting them out, a wet, nasty job at all 
times and something fierce in rough water. I, 
for one, was glad when it was over, and we 
were heading back to the big motor boat. Out 
there in the ocean, with dusking falling fast and 
the land a long way off, the Lizzie looked to 
Stuart and me as big as a liner. Mounting a 
wild mustang would describe the process of 
boarding her. for, with the small boats hopping 
and skipping in one direction and the Lizzie 
plunging in another, to get from one to the 
other without being smashed up or upset was 
just a bit exciting. 
That night it was supper, a smoke and then 
bed, and if Stuart was not asleep when he “hit 
(Continued on page 544.) 
TAKING IN DECOYS. 
