Sept, io, 1910.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
413 
Rail Shooting on the Flood. 
A raw, northeast wind blew across the broad 
tidal flats which stretched away for miles to 
the south and west from the tiny boat house, 
which stands like an island in the great sea of 
mingled greens and faded yellows. From the 
bridge where we stood the winding creek showed 
dull and leaden under the mass of hurrying 
clouds, which still let down an occasional spatter 
of rain, and the white-capped waves splashed 
with a monotonous slap-slap against the stone 
foundation of the dock. 
It was the 25th of September, and for three 
days and nights the equinoctial storm had lasted, 
the wind varying front a light breeze to a gale, 
and corning from the southeast. Such a storm is 
welcome to the rail shooters along the New 
Jersey coast, for the big tides which it drives in 
make it possible to push light skiffs back among 
sharply with the darker green of the cattails. 
Toward this little creek I paddled, while Billy 
occupied himself by arranging the shells within 
easy reach and making dire threats as to what 
he would do to those rail when they began to 
jump. It had been planned, as usual, to take 
turns with the gun, one shooting until a certain 
number of birds had flushed, and then taking the 
other’s place at the push-pole. This makes a 
fair division of the work as well as of the play, 
and we had always found it a satisfactory arrange¬ 
ment. 
Billy won the toss for first turn with the gun, 
so as the boat neared the grounds, I got out the 
fifteen-foot pole of seasoned pine, and standing 
on the heavy stern deck, prepared for strenuous 
work. The work of pushing even a little rail 
boat through tangled grass and rice is not ex¬ 
actly child’s play, especially when there is a soft 
mud bottom of limitless depth, where the pole 
rail were big and strong, and generally skimmed 
down wind with far more than their usual speed. 
Occasionally we lost a bird that had gone down 
evidently clean-killed, for it was very difficult to 
mark them down accurately in the confusion of 
swaying grass and cattails. 
It did not take long for Billy to get his first 
allowance of ten shots, and when I took my place 
in the bow there was still a lot of ground to be 
covered up that particular creek. The tide by 
this time had risen so high that it was possible to 
push the boat out over the meadows, and there 
we found the birds which hitherto had led lives 
of comparative safety as far as hunters were 
concerned. It seemed as if almost evert" patch 
of cattails contained one or more, and one little 
island of green sheltered four, only one of which 
lived to tell the tale. Every now and again un¬ 
gainly bitterns would flap heavily up from the 
cover of the long grasses, and once we killed a 
THE CREEK AND THE BOATHOUSE. 
A WATERWAY THROUGH THE MEADOWS. 
the cattails, where under ordinary conditions the 
birds are quite safe. 
The shooting that season had been below the 
average, for the clear, hot weather had made the 
soras loath to rise, and from safe hiding places 
in the grass they had answered merely with 
querulous “ke-e-a-ks” to the vigorous slapping of 
the pushers’ poles. 
So it was with considerable eagerness that Billy 
and I had looked forward to the big storms 
which usually come late in September, and whe'n 
this one started in with every promise of sup¬ 
plying the desired conditions, we hoped for 
“good hunting.” 
It lacked perhaps three hours of high tide when 
we pushed out in the light, round-bottomed boat, 
but the top of the old stake that marked the 
usual limit of the flood was already under water. 
1 he tide promised to be sixteen or eighteen 
inches higher than normal, and as we were the 
first on the grounds, it looked as if the hundred 
light shells stowed under the bow seat would be 
none too many. 
A quarter of a mile up the main creek was a 
broad slough, and from this a smaller stream 
wound far back across the flats, its edges bord¬ 
ered with wild rice, the faded color contrasting 
jaws find scant holding-ground. There is a knack 
about it, too, the knack of making every ounce of 
muscle count and of ‘ keeping a run on” the boat 
between shoves. A good pusher can always be 
told by the final thrust he gives with the pole, 
just before starting the swift hand-under-hand 
recovery. 
As the bow entered the rice, Billy rose to his 
feet that he might see better, and then for a few 
minutes nothing was heard but the splash of the 
pole and the ceaseless scrape and squeak of the 
stems against the sides of the boat as we forced 
our way along. Soon a rail flushed thirty feet 
ahead, and was cut down before he was well 
clear of the rice tops. The shot started another 
bird from a little patch of smartweed near the 
edge of the meadow, and at the yell of “Mark 
left!” Billy swung around and scored a difficult 
kill with the second barrel. “Some class—what?” 
he muttered cheerfully, as he slipped in fresh 
shells, and I agreed, for the second bird was go¬ 
ing down wind almost with the speed of a snipe. 
Gathering the two birds, we proceeded along 
the inner edge of the narrow strip of rice, fol¬ 
lowing the windings of the stream and getting 
shots every few minutes. It was very different 
sport from that of the early season, for these 
Virginia rail, a rather rare bird on these grounds. 
An incident which occurred near the upper end 
of the little creek seemed to amuse Billy im¬ 
mensely, though I couldn’t see the funny side of 
it at the time. We were crossing a narrow space 
of open water, both of us standing up in the 
boat, which was a bit unsteady when deprived of 
support of the grass and reeds. A rail jumped 
off to the right, just at the instant that Billy 
started a good, husky shove with the pole. The 
combination caused me to lose my balance, and as 
I pulled on the bird the boat started to turn 
turtle. Instinctively, with experience born of 
canoeing, I kicked the boat straight again and 
went overboard in the process, the thought of a 
complete capsize with all those shells aboard be¬ 
ing much too horrible to contemplate. Billy 
claims that en route from boat to water I yelled, 
“Did I get him?” but I have an idea that that is 
only a little embellishment added for the benefit 
of those to whom he tells the story. Be that as 
it may, two things are certain—the waters of the 
creek were very wet, and no bird was picked up 
to account for that particular shot. 
In time we reached a little bridge, where a 
fine macadam road crosses the marsh from east 
to west, and here a halt was called for a brief 
