526 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Oct. 26, 1912 
old fellow must have been well over fifty, but 
had just been married for the third time. When¬ 
ever I met him he would reach into his pocket 
and draw out a wedding day photograph of him¬ 
self and “his woman.” It was plain to see who 
was the boss of that household, as his wife 
would make just about three of the “old man.” 
As a young fellow, Beacham was considered the 
best shot on the Back Bay, and was said to have 
killed seventy-seven canvasbacks from a battery 
without a miss. 
III. 
At “Ragged Islands” it was the custom to 
shoot the outside points in the mornings, and 
the marsh in the late afternoon and evening. At 
the former you had chances at the diving ducks 
THE OLD CLUB HOUSE, RAGGED' ISLAND. 
—canvasback, redhead, bluebill and an occasional 
goose or swan; in the marsh your opportunities 
were at teal, blackduck, mallard, widgeon, shovel- 
er, pintail, an occasional woodduck and more 
geese. 
My first day at the club was a “blue bird 
day,” as Howard called it, and we set out our 
twenty or thirty stools off South Point, as what 
little wind there was came from the southwest. 
After sitting in the stand for some time with¬ 
out a shot—plenty of ducks flying, but high— 
Howard, who must have had eyes in the back 
of his head, whispered, “Keep quiet. Iiere comes 
a little bunch of canvas from over in the ocean.” 
I turned slightly and saw seven big ducks headed 
our way. I didn’t think they would come down, 
but Howard’s call, “H-a-a-r, h-a-a-r, h-a-a-r,” 
attracted their attention, and they began to circle. 
Around and around they flew while I squatted, 
not daring to move a muscle. Finally with a 
whistle of wings they flew right over our heads 
into the decoys. “Now!” said Cooper, and we 
stood up. We each got one as they jumped, but 
as the sun had risen and they flew right into 
its glare, a wing-tipped drake was the sole re¬ 
sult of our second barrels. 
IV. 
I was at “Whitsun’s” with Howard. The 
sun was warm. I drowsed off. A dig from 
Cooper’s elbow brought me to. “Get down! 
Here comes an old swan!” I slipped one load 
of BB’s and one of T’s into my “12” and 
watched the great white bird fly steadily along. 
He was pretty well out and high up, but as he 
got directly in front of the stand, I gave him 
one barrel after the other. To my joy he turned 
about three somersaults and struck the water 
with a tremendous splash, but his head was up. 
Howard grabbed his gun, and jumping into the 
“shove skiff” started after him, while the swan 
swam off with the speed of a race horse. Finally 
Cooper thought he was near enough and started 
to raise his gun, but the wise old bird was too 
wary, tie rose and flew about 200 yards and 
Howard started after him. The bird rose again 
and this “fly” carried him out over a mile into 
the sound. We never saw him again. 
V. 
On another trip I was at Lane’s. Contrary 
to custom we had decided to shoot this point 
in the afternoon and evening, as a battery which 
had spoiled our shooting in the morning had just 
taken up. A few bluebills, two canvasbacks and 
a goose were lying in the grass back of the stand, 
and it seemed as if this was to be the total of 
the day’s bag, as the birds had stopped flying. A 
sailboat tacking up the bay rallied a large raft 
of fowl, ducks, geese and swans, many of which 
headed for the ocean. Their line of flight car¬ 
ried them in our direction, but they were very 
high and out of range. A bunch of about forty 
swans followed the ducks toward the sea. They 
were flying low—not over twenty feet above the 
surface of the water—but were well out from 
the shore. As they came by our point they cut 
in a little to pass over the bay next to us and 
this brought them about seventy yards from the 
stand. In the center of the flock some eight of 
the great white bodies in line caught my eye, 
and the heavy eight-gauge sent a couple of 
charges of BB’s hurtling in their direction. 
“Confound it, Howard, I didn’t lead them 
enough.” 
“Yes, you did, sir,” was his answer, “look 
there and there.” 
Fully a quarter of a mile away what looked 
like a white feather pillow was floating on the 
water, and nearly as far again another swan was 
down, but with her head up and paddling off. 
Cooper lost no time in hustling after the cripple 
in the skiff. He was gone till dark and I heard 
him shoot several times, but when he came back 
he brought .with him both swans. They were so 
heavy and clumsy to carry that one apiece made 
a good load from the boat landing to the club 
house. On the scales one bird weighed sixteen 
and the other eighteen pounds. Mounted, with 
wings extended, the big one measured exactly 
seven feet from tip to tip. 
VI. 
When I first went to “Ragged Islands” the 
rule about taking up at sundown was strictly ad¬ 
hered to, and this put a. stop to “duskin’ ” ducks, 
so that unless the weather was blustery the 
shooting was pretty tame after sunset. One eve¬ 
ning I had tied out in the west box at Murray 
Cove. A westerly wind had been coming up all 
afternoon and the ducks began to fly before I 
was ready for them at 4 P. M. This left me 
only half an hour to shoot, as the sun set at 
4:30. I had hardly settled down in the stand 
before a single blackduck hovered over the de¬ 
coys. I pulled on him twice in quick order, but 
missed clean. Then a pair of shovelers—the 
first I had ever seen—set their wings and started 
to light among the stools. I gave them two bar¬ 
rels, but they hurried on their way. I was be¬ 
ginning to get exasperated, and when a huge 
flock of mallards came straight across the cove 
to me and two “guns” brought no results, I de¬ 
cided it was time to steady down, take my time 
and do something. A wisp of “bluewings” 
whizzed over the decoys, and this time I scored 
a double. An inquisitive pair of widgeon also 
came to stay as did a fat mallard drake. I had 
found myself and until I took up at 4:30 I didn’t 
miss another shot. Twenty-two was my bag in 
that short half hour and a pretty variety it con¬ 
tained •—- mallard, blackduck, blue-winged teal, 
widgeon and pintail. I never expect to have such 
a shoot again. 
VII. 
A year or two later the sea came over the 
beach into the Back Bay and killed all the “wild 
celery” with the result that the shooting from 
the outside points was practically nil. Much of 
the “duck grass” in the coves was cleaned out, 
and except in very rough weather there were 
no ducks till after sundown. This started the 
members of the club shooting at night, and when 
I made my annual visit I followed their lead. 
There were a great many geese “using” in “Shed 
Cove” at the northern extremity of the club 
property, and one moonlight night Cooper took 
me up there. I led “Mike,” the Chesapeake Bay 
dog, into the little old stand, while Howard im¬ 
provised a dozen decoys in the shallow water 
from bundles of duck grass set on sticks. Far 
superior to blocks for night shooting and much 
less trouble. This accomplished, Cooper shoved 
off to try another small cove a quarter of a mile 
further on. 
It was an ideal night for the sport. The 
bright moon, reflected in the waters, cast dark 
MARSH STAND. 
shadows along the edges of the cove. The roar 
of the sea on the beach presaged an easterly wind 
for the morrow. There were just enough light 
clouds in the sky to make the birds show up 
well. “Mike” began to tremble with excitement 
and a couple of dark bodies passed over me with 
whistling wings, but were gone before I could 
get my gun up. Again “Mike” began to shiver 
while his tail thumped against the rushes. A 
