398 
SEPTEMBER, 1917 
a 
FOREST AND STREAM 
continue, under favorable conditions, to fly 
most of the day. My own observation is 
that one finds the best shooting morning 
and evening. However, it not infrequently 
happens that many flocks of birds will come 
to stool throughout the day, if one has the 
patience to wait. 
The greater yellowleg is considerably later 
in making its appearance. Not uncommon¬ 
ly it fails to show before the middle of 
September or early October. I have shot 
these birds while lying in a ducking boat 
on the snow-covered shore in late Novem¬ 
ber. They whistle in rather easily and are 
less easily frightened than some birds. 
Their large size makes a pretty fair mark, 
even though they can fly with almost in¬ 
credible swiftness. I know of few birds 
which tickle the palate more than the 
greater yellowleg. To my mind it is as 
toothsome as a quail. 
Black breasted plover are more abundant 
on Long Island meadows than are golden 
plover. These birds, I make no doubt, are 
more popular among most sportsmen who 
love shore bird shooting than any other 
species of shore bird. They stood well; they 
fly swiftly; they are excellent eating. What 
more could one ask? They furnish rare 
sport, and when the flight is good it is not 
difficult for the good marksman to take his 
legal bag of fifteen. 
Rail shooting in and about the meadows 
of Long Island is by far less commonly 
practiced than shorebird shooting. I can 
ascribe no adequate reason for this, as in 
certain places there are plenty of rails. 
Of course, it is more strenuous work, inas¬ 
much as it does not consist of setting out 
some stools and waiting for birds to settle 
among them, but in poling about in a skiff 
on the flood tide and shooting the birds 
as they start up from the shore at the boat’s 
approach. One can get rails by poling his 
own boat, but he must be allfired quick in 
dropping the pole, picking up his gun, aim¬ 
ing and firing. The better way is to hire a 
husky young man who knows the birds’ 
habits and feeding grounds, to pole the boat 
while the gunner sits in the bow and claps 
his eye, and the sights of his gun, upon the 
bird as soon as it springs into flight. 
I have known gunners to shoot shore- 
birds and rails sitting upon the ground, or 
resting among the stools. Perhaps, if one 
were starving, there might be some excuse 
for that. Otherwise no true sportsman 
could find any reason to excuse it. A bird 
is entitled to its chance. If the gunner can¬ 
not shoot quickly enough or accurately 
enough to stop it in full flight, he would 
better find some other outlet for his sport¬ 
ing proclivities. I can think of no simile 
so fitting for shooting sitting birds as that 
of a man catching trout in schools with a 
net. 
A PRAIRIE CHICKEN DAY IN NEBRASKA 
TWO WELL TRAINED POINTERS, TWENTY GAUGE GUNS AND A PERFECT 
SEPTEMBER DAY WITH THE MINUET DANCERS OF THE PRAIRIES 
By RIPLEY 
( f r T" , HEY are mudhens,” conjectured my 
companion, as we walked just be¬ 
fore supper along the banks of 
the slow-flowing Platte. 
As the sun abruptly dodged behind the 
low irregular hills a flock of large birds 
sailed across the river, and alighted in the 
weeds within the city limits. 
“Yes—no,” I said, surprise momentarily 
robbing me of the power of immediately 
classifying the birds. I knew just as well 
what they were as I knew the name of the 
river, but it had been so many years since 
1 had seen pinnated grouse that my answer 
was long in coming. I knew at first that 
they were not ducks. I was positive from 
the flight that they were not coots, but I 
was as positive as day that they were 
broadtails, although I 
could not separate 
them out of the hazy 
times of yore and 
designate them at 
once. Ten years’ ab¬ 
sence from the chick¬ 
en country had me 
staring wide-mouthed 
at that nearly impal¬ 
pable flock, which 
was hurrying to roost 
on that cool Septem¬ 
ber evening. It was 
almost impossible of 
belief that uncom¬ 
promising modernity 
had left a few parts 
of the United States 
so close to a village 
still abundantly sup¬ 
plied with those min¬ 
uet dancers of the 
prairies. 
The morning we 
drove forth on our 
hunt had all the bite 
of an October cold A 
wave on the prairies of the northwest. 
We drew our coat collars close about our 
necks, casting envious glances at the driver 
of the buckboard with the heavy blanket 
spread over his legs, and once or twice 
vaguely speculating whether it would not 
be rather cosy—granting there was room— 
to get in the dog’s crate at the back of the 
rig, and try to absorb some of the warmth 
from those two contented pointers that 
were coiled up in their liberal beds of rye 
straw. 
Ray, my shooting companion, tall, and 
chary of flesh as he was of complimentary 
phrases for the weather, shivered beside 
me. He was the game sort, however, will¬ 
ing to submit to the rigors of weather for 
the sake of indulging in his old pastime. 
Our drive had been over the valley, then 
up appreciable red-topped hills, covered 
with short grass, down graceful slopes on 
to flats, only again to top another rise of 
consequence, and to stare appreciatively 
out into the broad expanse of prairie. 
“W-h-o-a-p!” I chattered to the driver. 
I was so cold I could not articulate dis¬ 
tinctly. “Whoa, there, Mr. • Driver,” I 
finally managed to say, “this about ends all 
my powers of endurance. That sun of 
yours looks mighty warm, but the breeze 
cuts through my southern-acclimated body 
like a knife.” 
“I am with you,” joined in Ray beaming 
with delight. He showed the effects of the 
cold as much as I. “Open that dog crate, 
and let’s get to walking and see what those 
short-haired fellows 
can do—even if they 
have never seen a 
chicken before.” 
Still shivering, I 
opened the crate 
door. Two pointers 
jumped out, shook 
themselves a few 
times, surveyed the 
open country with 
appraising brown 
eyes, then galloped 
happily toward the 
north. 
Our driver knew 
h i s occupation of 
guiding chicken hunt¬ 
ers ; for he proceeded 
behind us at a slow 
gait, interlarded with 
brief stops which ap¬ 
peared to suit his 
half-somnolent state 
very well. 
The two black and 
white pointers, sire 
and son, Master and 
Contented Trio of Prairie Chicken Hunters 
