294 

O 
The Greatest Sporting 
Goods Store in the World 
Fishermen’s 
Clothes 

eg 
A. & F. Coldstream 
duck fishing coats and 
trousers, Jarvis fishing 
jackets, service weight 
English waders, wading 
shoes, hob-nail or felt 
soles. 
Hawes, Granger, Di- 
vine and Hardy Rods, 
with MHalford’s tapered 
and level lines; Harvey’s 
tapered leaders in three 
weights, each 714 feet 
long; and Hardy’s Fly 
Reels. 
Full line of imported 
wet and dry flies. 
Write for 1925 Fishing Catalogue 
dbercrombie 
& Fitch Co- 
EZRA H. FITCH, President 
Madison Ave. and 45th St. 
New York 
“Where the Blazed Trail 
Crosses the Boulevard” 



In writing to Advertisers mention Forest and Stream. 
Yellowlegs and Nimble Jacks 
A Day on the Marshes in Pursuit of the Yelper 
and His Acrobatic Cousin, the Jacksnipe 
By DR. FRANK LINWOOD BAILEY 

HE new born sun was 
just tinging the east- 
ern sky when Billy 
and I stepped from 
4\\g' the old flivver. Here 
# and there along the 
ene big marsh, signs of 
7HVA life sprang into be- 
ing. An American 
Bittern winnowed 
lazily upward from a little gully ahead 
of us, while a great blue heron flapped 
awkwardly skyward, only to volplane 
to earth in a new resting place a few 
seconds later. A marsh hawk, a tern 
and a belated swallow also added them- 
selves to the moving picture stretched 
out before us, while an old sentinel crow 
cawed at us scoldingly from a dead 
shrub. Far across the flat expanse of 
browning green waste of marshland, the 
distant line of broken forest pushed its 
jagged edge up into the blue, while to 
the east a heavy blue-white blanket of 
fog rolled itself skyward like a gigantic 
curtain rising from the sea. 
A short walk through the coarse 
marsh grass brought us to the blind, 
and unslinging our knapsacks we hastily 
brought forth the decoys. We had a 
dozen and a half of the folding tin fac- 
similes, mostly yellowleg with several 
golden and “beetle-head” sprinkled in. 
Placing our stool some _ twenty-five 
yards to windward in a little shallow 
pond we settled back with pipes glow- 
ing to await the flight. 
I think we were drowsing when the 
plaintive “Yelp-yelp-yelp” of a yellow- 
leg assailed our ears and in another mo- 
ment he was fairly yelling his head 
off over the decoys. I slipped the 
“safety” off my gun but Billy’s “Old 
Reliable” was already at his shoulder 
and he doubled Mr. Yellow Stockings 
up like a jack-knife, letting him down 
on top of the stool. “Good boy, Billy!” 
said I, grinning. “Fun, ain’t it?” he 
commented, pushing a fresh shell into 
his empty barrel. I admitted that it 
WAS “fun.” The tang of the salt 
marsh air, the invigorating morning 
breeze, the smell of burned powder and 
the friendly sunshine; all combined 
with keen anticipation of the next shot 
was just the right concoction to make 
men become boys again and forget the 
cares and worries of a busy world. 
ILLY brought in the dead bird and 
we settled down to await the next 
move. We knew the rising tide would 
/are so easy.” 
It will identify you. 
soon send the bay birds landward, and 
already the first incomers could be seen 
dimly here and there streaking across 
the marsh. A small congregation of 
plover hove in sight, at first far off 
toward the bay, yet steadily drawing 
nearer. We got our whistles out and 
began tuning in. They were almost 
beyond the range of hearing, but one 
old longbill with ears sharper than the 
rest must have caught our frantic calls, 
for he swerved from the flock and then 
followed by the others, surged toward 
us. 
“Seven,” warned Billy in an under- 
tone, “look after your side and I’ll take 
mine.” Now they saw the decoys, and 
with long sweeping strokes they pulled 
in. It was a crossing shot, but our lead 
must have been timed perfectly, for at 
the staccato “bark” of our Parkers they 
jerked, pitched and collapsed almost as 
one. There were six of them, Billy had 
said seven, they were big fellows and 
looked like a dozen. 
“Gee-gosh!”’ exclaimed Billy, “I did 
not expect to do so well.” 
“You!” I protested. “Why, you poor 
misguided infant, didn’t I shoot, too?” 
“Yeah, you shot TWO,” replied Billy, 
“IT got the rest.” 
Suddenly from nowhere in particular 
a “beetle-head” sprang to life. My gun 
was empty for which I was very thank- 
ful, but Billy’s gun was loaded. The 
bird presented a difficult crossing shot 
to the right and my friend swung as 
far as he could and failed to connect 
‘with either barrel. 
-“D)LEASE don’t offer any alibis,’” I 
advised him, “but I know who got 
the most birds out of that last bunch of 
yellowlegs.” Billy, a trifle nettled, threw 
his empy shells at me and offered to 
bet he’d make more singles than I did. 
“What about doubles?” I asked, “singles 
Billy was game so we 
waited for doubles. The cry of a yel- 
low-leg warned us of an approaching 
prospect. Vainly we scanned the sky 
for another but there was only one. I 
‘whistled him in and shot him with the 
right barrel, then before he landed, got 
him with the left. ‘“There’s my double,” 
I informed the world. Billy reckoned 
that kind of shooting wasn’t legitimate, 
he said, there would have to be two 
‘birds. As fate would have it, two “yel- 
lows” came toward us five minutes 
later and Billy got ready to show me 
how it was done. He drew a bead on 
iL 
