Oct. 26, 1912 
FOREST AND STREAM 
525 
against their tightly feathered breasts and wings 
unharming, for they were a little beyond range. 
Into the field where we once got up a covey 
and killed but three, we started. Half way down 
the dogs pointed in a dense patch of weeds and 
oats the harvesters had failed to glean, and up 
went seven birds, four of which we secured 
easily. The rest of that end of the valley gave 
us nothing, though we saw some birds drop into 
the corn and grass and thought we had located 
and marked them truly. Across the road we 
traveled and cast the dogs loose in a piece of 
wheat stubble. Never a bird was to be found. 
Coming to the end of this, another stubble of 
oats along a large field of corn caught our atten¬ 
tion, and we got up a covey a hundred yards 
ahead. One straggler dropped to our guns. Per¬ 
haps that extra two grains of Ballistite did the 
trick. It was a long shot, anyway. 
Across the valley we saw a large piece of 
stubble from which we had once seen two nice 
coveys get up a few hundred yards ahead of 
us. The stubble was high and surrounded by 
corn and looked good. The sick man tied his 
horse and rig to a haystack and accompanied 
us into this Eden for the prairie chicken. One 
lone hen rose before we advanced a hundred 
yards. She tumbled quickly. On the crest of 
a knoll John began his reading, and we were 
sure birds were there or had been there within 
the hour. 
Near a bit of hay land, and yet in the stub¬ 
ble, John and the pointer came to a perfect stand 
They were a long way ahead and the birds re¬ 
fused to hold. Fifteen or sixteen rose into the 
air before we were within range and only three 
stragglers that lay to the dogs' points did we 
get. If they had not risen against the wind, we 
would have lost even these. But the dogs still 
held their points and we could not understand it. 
“More birds in here somewhere,’’ declared 
one. 
"Nonsense. With all that shooting?’’ asked 
another. 
Then John dropped his nose, roaded a bit 
and advanced into the wind toward the ground 
we had just covered and raised his head. The 
pointer drew alongside and both their noses 
quivered as they sniffed the odor of birds. Being 
curious we went back the way we had come over 
the knoll and soon the air was thick with raising 
chickens. They had laid tight to the ground, and 
as we passed them before, they had failed to 
flush. The battery of four guns began their use¬ 
fulness, and at last we had enough birds to start 
home with ten each on the following morning. 
We had been in the chicken country five 
days, were sunburned and tanned and freckled. 
The dogs were gaunting up and settling to their 
work beautifully. We had made friends among 
the farmers, killed only enough for food and 
were fagged out from the chase over the coun¬ 
try afoot. Invitations for another year poured 
in—and we shall accept. 
There was a flight of woodcock on the new 
moon, in Sullivan county, N. Y., but the grounds 
were too hard to hold them. They dropped in 
and then moved elsewhere. On good feeding 
grounds they will usually remain until the next 
good frost, but birds should be dropping in 
every night now. The time is short, as the first 
hard freeze, making ice, will send them further 
south. 
Reminiscences of 
1. 
W HEN the "Governor” offered my brother 
and me the choice of a share in one of 
the Southern ducking clubs, we were in 
a quandary what to choose. A friend, Dr. W., 
who had been a member of the Ragged Islands 
Gunning Club Association with property in the 
“Back Bay” at the head of Currituck Sound, 
suggested that we buy a share of “Ragged Isl¬ 
ands” if there were one for sale. We found a 
dry goods merchants in Norfolk who had the 
article in question. He agreed to take me as his 
guest to the club for a week, and if satisfied 
with the property I was to purchase his share. 
I went to “Ragged Islands,” saw the property 
and the fowl, and bought the share. This hap¬ 
pened in 1896, and during the following four 
years I visited the islands at least once and 
often twice during the shooting season. Those 
were my first real ducking days, and I shall re¬ 
member them as long as I live. Following are 
a few of the incidents that recur most vividly to 
my mind’s eye: 
11 . 
Young Burke, son of the dry goods mer¬ 
chant, and I arrived at Virginia Beach shortly 
after noon. There we obtained a rig from the 
livery men and drove down the beach twenty- 
five miles. It was a long, cold journey, but the 
sight of numerous ducks and geese resting in 
the ocean just outside the line of breakers was 
enough to keep me warm. We found Waterfield, 
the club keeper, and one of the guides, Howard 
Cooper, waiting for us with the “big boat" at 
Barbour’s Place opposite the club house. A short 
sail landed us at ‘ Ragged Islands.” 
The old club house with its gun room, its 
big open fireplaces in living room and dining 
room, its double feather beds—two to a bed¬ 
room—the weather arrow on the dining room 
ceiling, connected with the vane on the roof, 
showing the direction of the wind, first claimed 
“Ragged Islands” 
my attention. Then Burke, taking down a glass 
from a hook over the door, guided me up to the 
lookout to investigate. As it was Sunday, a 
“rest day,” the fowl had not been disturbed, and 
every cove and pond in the marshes had its quota 
of ducks, geese or swan. In "House Cove,” a 
few minutes’ walk back of the club house, sat 
a llock of fifty or sixty' swans accompanied by 
numerous bunches of geese, while ducks of all 
kinds dabbled about the edges or "traded” back 
and forth. That night it was all I could do to 
sleep because of the racket of those geese and 
swans, augmented by their brethren who had 
flown in from the ocean to feed in the moon¬ 
light. 
Besides Waterfield, the keeper, the club em¬ 
ployed three men—two as guides and one as 
guide and game warden to keep off the poachers. 
The first two, Howard Cooper and “Os” Moore, 
were typical Southern baymen. Cooper was of 
medium height with good shoulders, a red face, 
tiny red moustache and closely cropped, dark red 
hair. A good-natured, lazy fellow, but a great 
man in a shoving skiff—one who always did his 
“darndest” to get you shooting, and the best shot 
I ever saw in a blind. “Os” was rather different. 
He was about Howard’s height, but slim and 
wiry with a long drooping brown moustache and 
sharp cadaverous features. My impression of 
“Os” was that he did no more than he thought 
you'd put up with. He was not as good a shot 
in a blind as Howard, but was far his superior 
in a battery. Each was jealous of the other’s 
shooting and each had his “parlor tricks.” The 
third man, “Old Beacham,” didn’t come around 
to the club house unless he was so required. He 
lived in a little shack on the bay side of the 
marshes and guarded the property. I remember 
one night when he was at the club house some¬ 
one was “firelighting Shed Cove” and “Old 
Beacham” started after them with a “shove 
skiff.” He took along a regular arsenal of rifles 
and shotguns, but didn't need them, as the 
poachers heard him coming and got away. The 
A BACK BAY MARKET HUNTER’S RIG. 
