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In writing to Advertisers mention Forest and Stream. 








Yellowlegs Reminiscences 
By FRANK LINWOOD BAILEY 


CI ARSHFIELD, the old 
A M home of Daniel Web- 
Be JZ 



ster, the autumn 
playground of the 
plover, and the fall 
mecca of shore bird 
shooters. 
“4  Billy’s flivver emit- 
{ted a final “gas- 
tric” cough and came 
to a drawn out stop 
beneath my window. I knew it was 
Billy, because no other car ever coughs 
in just that same tone of protest. I 
cast my eye warily toward my wife in 
the darkness, and hoped Billy wouldn’t 
blow his horn. I wanted to sneak out 
if possible without awakening my 
“better two-thirds of the household,” 
but the fatal horn sounded, then I had 
to explain to the “Missus” that I 
thought I’d go plover shooting this 
morning. I also vowed mentally to get 
Billy’s scalp sometime, or else fill his 
blamed old auto horn full of sand. 
After a hasty lunch of doughnuts and 
coffee, I joined Billy outside. With the 
guns and decoys stowed away, we were 
scooting out around the corner of the 
house and headed down the south shore 
road toward Marshfield. 
The wind still held smartly to the 
eastward, but the storm of the previous 
day was blowing itself out. Now and 
then a pin-point star peeped from be- 
hind a dark scudding cloud, and the 
last rim of an old moon played hide 
and seek with itself behind us, 
“Any idea where we’re going?” I 
asked Billy. 
“Why, I thought we were going fish- 
ing,’ he replied quietly. 
“You know what I mean,” I retorted. 
“We haven’t any blind down there.” 
“No,” he admitted. “But there’s about 
a hundred of them there. We can use 
one until we’re invited to vacate, then 
we can take another.” ‘All right,” I 
returned. “It’s your party, you asked 
me to go.” (I had been hinting around 
for a week, hoping that he would.) 
FANT bands of gray were streaking 
the East when he put out the last 
decoy. We had set up a good stool to 
windward, with a small bunch about 
fifty yards beyond this to attract the 
first on-comers, relying on our whistles 
to bring them closer. Sitting comfort- 
ably apart behind our hastily patched- 
up blind of grass and seaweed, we 
slipped a few doses of chilled sevens- 
and-a-half into our guns. Billy al- 
ways wants to shoot from the right- 
hand side, so I had to change seats with 
him; some fellows are awful fussy. 
It will identify you. 
Presently a clear four-note call re- 
minded us of what we came for. We 
brought our whistles into action and 
were rewarded by a closer call. 
“Mark right!” Billy exclaimed, eas- 
ing his arm a little. That arm move- 
ment of his is a sure sign of game. On 
they came; there may have been eight- 
een in all, but they looked like a hun- 
dred. My pipe dropped to the ground 
and we swung up and along just as the 
birds bunched prettily; Billy grunted 
and we pulled, then we pulled some 
more. 
“T’m ashamed of myself!” cried 
Billy, “when I know we got nine.” 
“V’m proud of myself,” I replied, “for 
I tried to make all singles.” “Go on!” 
said he, “they were bunched thickest 
on your side, anyway.” There was no 
chance for an argument and besides, 
Billy was right. 
I relighted my pipe, Billy had quit 
smoking for almost a year, so I let the 
smoke blow into his face, funny how 
mean a fellow will act without provo- 
cation. A babel of cries, and a bunch 
of yellow-legs were almost upon us, 
coming head on. With the first charges 
we sat them back on their haunches 
for a loss of six while the second volley 
netted four more. Their ranks were 
sadly broken when we pumped in the 
third fire, each getting one apiece. 
From then on it was scattering birds. 
WO youngsters were in a blind about 
two gunshots from us, a spot that 
proved a source of great interest. They 
would shoot as soon as the birds got 
within a hundred yards and keep it 
up until they were another hundred 
away. It was really a good thing for 
the birds, for it saved their lives, inci- 
dentally, it helped the shell manufac- 
turers, too. It lost us many shots but 
we were satisfied with the toll already 
taken. 
Soon came the call of a “black- 
breast,” the first we had heard. These 
shy fellows proved wary, and despite 
all our invitations they declined to ac- 
cept. One gunner who must have been 
shooting Super-X in a Lewis Magnum, 
using chilled “ones,” stretched his gun 
to the limit and succeeded in bringing 
down one. 
A single summer yellow-leg headed 
our way. I bet three shells that Billy 
couldn’t get him from his left shoulder, 
providing we let the bird come well in, 
while I fired a gun in the air to speed 
him up. Billy covered my bet and we 
waited. When the bird had hooked his 
wings to alight I fired twice in the air. 
How he did climb. Billy let loose but 
Page 560 
