forest and stream 
535 
Shore Bird Reminiscences and Experiences 
A Tale of The Days When Shooting Brought Satisfactory Results, Although Not More Pleasure Than 
Comes Now to The Devotee of The Sport 
HIS may not interest the casual 
reader, but those who have 
participated in the snipe shoot¬ 
ing on Shinnecock Bay, Long 
Island, some years ago, will 
recall to memory many fine 
bags made, and pleasant days 
spent on the marshes. It was 
before the power boat came into general use. 
when it was necessary to rely on the scooter and 
the “ashbreeze” for transportation from the 
mainland to the beach. Now what a change: 
they tell me imposing cottages have been erected 
on the beach. Spots that were then devoid of 
marsh grass, have now grown up, channels filled 
in, and the power boat reigns supreme. Still I 
understand fair shooting can be had in spite of 
civilization’s progress. 
We, of the snipe shooting brotherhood, can 
close our eyes, and see the small scooter being 
carefully loaded in the wee small hours of the 
morning, with the lunch pails, oil skins, car¬ 
tridges, cases, decoys, guns in rubber cases, 
water jug, and everything shipshape for the sail 
across the bay. It may be a nasty morning, east 
wind blowing half a gale, dark as pitch, or clear 
with the heavens dotted with stars—it mattered 
not to the enthusiast. How I remember those 
midnight sails across the bay, with the lighthouse 
as guide for direction; also, how I remember the 
blessed lighthouse sometimes appearing on the 
wrong side, causing considerable argument as 
to how it got there without our notice. How good 
the morning air felt in our faces—how good our 
pipes tasted, even though we had no breakfast. 
I can see how the phosphorescent waves coming 
in over the scooter’s bow, as she felt the wind. 
Then came the question, where we would rig, 
the Inlet, Rack Channel, or Gull Island where 
was the wind, north, west; so be it; the birds 
would come well in under the beach shore, prob¬ 
ably from the east. There someone is getting up 
in the Walker House; we can see a light; more 
opposition. Never mind, the more the merrier; 
keep the birds moving. We have almost free 
wind, and away we hustle for the inlet. The 
choice of the inlet makes us feel good, as our 
boxes were there ready, and quarter-filled with 
marsh hay; otherwise we should have had to 
tow them considerable distance. Now for decoys 
out they go, in crescent formation, with the 
jack stool well outside so they will show up. 
Some may ask, why the crescent forma¬ 
tion? and I blush to state that we usu¬ 
ally arranged with a shovel to have a nice 
little sand bar inside the crescent for birds to 
light, which was particularly attractive to brant, 
black breasted plover, and robin snipe. Some¬ 
times however, we deviated from this rule ac¬ 
cording to the nature of the places. We were 
rigged by placing the decoys in small bunches, 
well apart, without respect as to their pointings 
to windward or otherwise, but always the larger 
By R. H. Dana, Jr. 
decoys well out of the water. Now then, the 
blind. We pull marsh grass, which comes up by 
the roots, clods of mud with it, sufficient to hold 
it upright against the boxes without blowing 
down in the wind. It is not very good for the 
hands, as the grass cuts, but never mind. 
Everything is in readiness and we step into 
our boxes to await the break of day. How 
peaceful it all was (barring the mosquitoes) the 
twitterings of the marsh wrens, soft calls of the 
different waders on their migration, the quack of 
the night heron leaving the marshes for their 
day roost in the pines and the scrub oak on the 
mainland. How slowly the time passed until 
daylight. Soon as we could see, one of us would 
get up on the decoy box and have a look up and 
down the beach for other gunners. There was 
Mr. S. and his gunner in Rack Channel, our 
keenest competitors, and companions of many 
pleasant days. ‘West of us two professional 
gunners, Mott and Herman, and a mighty tough 
combination to beat—incidentally, our instructors 
at the game, and so on, up and down the beach 
shore. 
Two guns to the east, and the fun commences. 
Along come a mixed bunch of little yellow legs 
and dowitchers, answering the calls, twisting, 
turning and circling to the decoys. *'C” turns 
loose on the windward portion of the bunch 
with his Greener, while I give my attention to the 
tailenders, hence avoiding killing each other’s 
birds. So it goes on till about io o’cclock—then 
comes a lull, and one wonders if it is all over for 
the day, sometimes it is, but more often it isn’t. 
How mice it was to pull off one’s rubber boots 
when the sun got hot, and wiggle one’s toes, pre¬ 
paring for a nice little nap, while “C” tries hard 
to keep awake and watch. Next thing you know 
you are awakened by a slap on the chest that near¬ 
ly does for you, accompanied by a hoarse voice— 
“Don’t move, Jack coming!” and you can see 
through a small opening in the blind a good 
string of Jack curlew ilying low just over the 
sand dunes. Now look out! I can hear Mr. S.’s 
gunner almost blowing his brains out trying to 
turn there, but ;no use they are too far in shore 
and well to windward. Now Mott and Herman 
see them, and all is lost unless the birds see our 
decoys, as Herman can whistle on his fingers in 
curlew language, to make the tyro’s hair stand on 
end, but on comes the brown string, steady as 
geese. They see our decoys, and will give us a 
look anyway. "Who the devil kicked that lunch 
pail ?” I hear someone whisper. They won’t 
get any nearer. Now then, give it to ’em. Next 
thing you see is Mr. S. upon his decoy box wav¬ 
ing congratulations with his hat. 
Then comes another lull. The dinner pail is 
produced, cover removed, and you peep in. What 
in the world has happened? Contents sadly 
mixed up, ham sandwiches, cake, huckleberry pie, 
all in a jumble. I hear a remark from my side 
partner. “What’s the use? shake it up good, 
close your eyes, and eat it with a spoon.” Then 
just as you get a good generous mouthful of the 
concoction, you are sure to hear the clear me¬ 
tallic call of the yelper, which almost chokes you 
to death trying to whistle him in. 
I once witnessed a very humorous sight while 
visiting another blind. It was about noon time, 
and the occupants were having lunch (if you 
can call it that). The gunner was busily engaged 
in getting outside of a piece of sticky pie that 
had candied in the lunch pail, owing to the heat 
of the day. After having placed in his mouth a 
rather large piece, I thought, for so small a man, 
we heard a small bunch of yellow leg calling. 
Well sir, “C” and I almost fell down laughing to 
see the gunner trying to whistle. Together with 
the sticky pie and false teeth, it nearly finished 
him. Anyway we made such a racket they never 
came .near us. 
Good old days! never to be forgotten. The 
old gunners of the district will well remember 
the familiar form of Mr. S., constantly on the 
marshes, now passed on to the happy hunting 
grounds. Courageous gentlemen, genial host, 
loving and kind sportsman of the old school, 
your memory will remain with us forever. 
