Feb. 13, 1909] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
255 
With Powder Flask and Shot Pouch. 
It is but right that I should state my quali¬ 
fications for presuming to write something of 
my recollection and experiences of old-time 
shooting days. 
\\'hen about thirteen years old I was given 
a small double-barreled shotgun, a muzzleloader 
of course, for this was long before the days of 
breechloaders—and I was a happy boy. Those 
were the days of powder flasks and shot pouches 
and waterproof caps. The family passed every 
summer at Swampscott, Mass. Back of Phil¬ 
lips’ Beach was Farmer’s Pond, and there my 
elder brother went with me to show me how to 
load and Are the new gun. I have no recollec¬ 
tion of the result of that first day, but of the 
second my memory is perfectly clear—and still 
humiliating. 
I went alone to the pond and 
niy hand at “peeps” as they 
flew by, singly or by twos or 
threes, and after several shots 
not a peep had I to show; all had 
gone on their way untouched. In 
a field bordering the pond a man 
was mowing with a scythe. He 
was about one hundred yards 
from me, and every time he 
heard the report of my gun he 
would turn his head and see the 
result—pleasant for the birds, but 
not satisfactory to me. Finally 
a nice flock of a dozen or more 
came flying by and I cracked 
away at them. No change—not 
a bird fell. 
This was more than the mower 
could stand, so he said in a very 
loud voice: “Didn’t you kill any 
then?” “No,” I replied in a very 
weak tone. 
“Well,” said he, “I will tell you 
what I will do. I will stand off 
at forty yards, and for sixpence 
a shot you may shoot at my back 
all day.” 
This broke my heart and peep¬ 
less I went home.. The experience, however, did 
not deter me from going again, else I should be 
obliged to stop here and write no more. 
My father was one of the original subscribers 
to the Birds of North America, by John J. 
Audubon, and during that winter I spent many 
an evening reading about marsh and beach birds, 
sandpipers, plover, curlew, ducks and geese, and 
studying the plates. In this way I soon learned 
to know and was able to recognize any bird 
of those species whenever and wherever I saw 
them. There is now in the Smithsonian Insti¬ 
tute, at Washington, D. C. a specimen of the 
barnacle goose which I sent there some thirty 
years ago—the only one they have that was 
killed in this country—for it is a British goose. 
It probably strayed across the ocean in the 
far North. A farmer’s boy in Jamaica, Long 
Island killed it, and I saw it hanging in a 
restaurant in New York city. I rescued it from 
the fate of being cooked and eaten. Now it 
occupies a prominent and important ppsition in 
the Smithsonian. 
Farmer’s Pond was quite large, with a road 
running across it as now. A year or two later 
it was drained and then there were some thirty 
acres of the softest kind of mud. 
The illustration from a photograph which I 
took some six years ago shows the drain as it 
is now. The houses on Atlantic avenue as seen 
were not there fifty years ago. Now the water 
is mostly overgrown with reeds and cat-tails. 
During the next few seasons after my first try¬ 
ing experience with the peeps, many were the 
yellowlegs and brownbacks (dowitchers) shot 
there. There were other large birds of course, 
but not often in numbers—willets, great-marbled 
and Hudsonian godwits, golden plover, long¬ 
billed and Fludsonian curlew (always called 
sickle-bills) and jacks. 
Of the old fishermen and residents of Swamp¬ 
scott who frequently went to the pond there 
were Mark Proctor, Bill Stone and the Phillips 
and Pitman boys. Mark was always there dur- 
member on one occasion when I wanted to get 
ahead of him I arrived on the ground about 2 
o’clock in the morning and found him quietly 
sleeping in the blind at the drain which was 
the best stand on the pond. Harry Proctor, 
captain of the steamer in use for the Massachu¬ 
setts Fish and Game Commission, is the son of 
Mark and he inherits his father’s skill. 
About the middle or 20th of September when 
the wind came southwest, the morning after an 
easterly storm, there was a flight of loons which 
followed the coast line past Marblehead Neck, 
and their fly-line took them straight over the 
beach between Little Nahant and Nahant. Many 
of the gunners from Lynn and Swampscott con¬ 
sidered it their bounden duty to be on the beach 
at daylight loaded for loons. 
Generally the flight would last until about 9 
o’clock, and many a loon failed to cross the 
beach where a dozen or more gunners were 
in wait behind blinds of sea weed and stones. 
Later in the season came coots and black ducks, 
and later still sea ducks (eiders) and other 
kinds. Besides the gunners already named, 
Tom Stanley, Eben Phillips and Jim Knowl- 
ton frequently went there—all good shots. 
Of the boys that were summer residents only, 
who tended out on the birds and fowl, there was 
one, George H. Mackay, who was often my com¬ 
panion or near neighbor. Many a trip in fair 
weather or foul, pleasant or trying, but perhaps 
not the less agreeable, have we taken together. 
The older gunners have all passed away, and 
only three or four of the younger ones are still 
here. 
There were three places where the gunners 
went for coot shooting—the Ledge at Swamp¬ 
scott, just outside of Whale’s Beach; the east 
point of Nahant and Tinker’s Island, either out¬ 
side or in the gut between the island and ]\Iar- 
blehead Neck. 
As a general thing the last mentioned place 
was the best, but much depended on the weather. 
In a hard northeaster the ledge was the only 
place, as it was too rough to go elsewhere. 
I recall with pleasure two weeks in October, 
i860, when George Mackay and I 
stayed at Fowler’s on Marblehead 
’ Neck. With the exception of the 
light it was the only house on 
the neck. How changed every¬ 
thing is now! Being near to 
Tinker’s Island, we were right on 
the gunning ground instead of 
four miles away in Swampscott, 
and many a coot failed to get by 
our muzzleloaders. In each boat 
there was always one gunner with 
two guns, the second gun being 
often called a “cripple stopper.” 
In those days, so far as I know, 
there was no law against sailing 
on coot, and I shot some that way 
off Little Nahant. With two guns 
in the boat I have sometimes 
emptied the four barrels at the 
same lot of coot before they 
were out of shooting distance. 
At that time I was using a good 
gun made by John P. Schenkl, 
who was the predecessor of W. 
R. Schaefer, long well known in 
Boston. 
In the winter of 1862-3 I was 
with my regiment in North Carolina. Our 
headquarters were at New Bern, and when we 
were not away on some expedition and camp 
routine did not require my presence, I would 
sometimes row up the Neuse River two miles 
to where it narrowed, set out my decoys, made 
in camp, and occupy my blind for two or three 
hours’ shooting. The ducks were mostly blue- 
bill widgeon (scaup ducks), with some canvas- 
backs, ringnecks and others. Many a nice din¬ 
ner did we have as a result—a welcome change 
from ordinary rations. 
Once when well concealed in the blind I saw 
a mile away a bald eagle coming toward me. 
He saw the decoys and swooped down to pick 
up one of them, but just before he could do so 
I jumped up and he got the scare of his life. I 
would not shoot him; he was only twenty yards 
away. I well remember the swish-swish of his 
powerful wings when he changed from a noise¬ 
less swoop to a frantic effort to get out of 
harm’s way as quickly as possible. It was a 
thrilling experience. 
And here let me relate something told me a 
few years ago by James A, Knowlton. He said 
ing August and part of September when he 
tried thought the chance for birds was right. I re- 
f.armek’s pond, swampscott, mass. 
