
giro 
tale of coot shooting, a sport well 
beloved by the natives of the 
New England sea-coast. The high-brow 
shooters of black duck will doubtless 
elevate their noses and sniff, even as 
I did before I was initiated into this 
good sport. Being a native of the Mis- 
sissippi Valley, I was used to shooting 
the regular species of river ducks, and 
on being asked to go cooting, I had 
visions of stalking through the 
marshes, potting at the chicken-billed 
mud hens so despised by my clan. This 
was my first mistake. The coot as it 
is known in New England, is really a 
scooter, one of the most common of the 
sea ducks. Moreover when properly 
cooked the flesh is excellent, opinions 
to the contrary notwithstanding. 
My second mistake was in imagin- 
ing that the shooting would be easy, 
for instead of shooting from a blind, 
we shot from a dory which seemed to 
have a distinct aversion to remaining: 
right side up. It seems perfectly sim- 
ple to sit in a boat and shoot up a flock 
of coot which is fool enough to come 
into the clumsy decoys, not thirty yards 
away, but unless one has tried it he 
cannot understand. A certain knack of 
semi-snap shooting has to be developed 
in order to hit anything, as the choppy 
sea seems to bounce one up and down 
and sideways all at once. I got a lot of 
conceit knocked out of me on that first 
hunt, but I saw that it was true sport, 
well worth pursuing, consequently I 
have shot the elusive coot at intervals 
for the past four seasons. 
ae begin with this is primarily a 
HUS it happened that one Friday 
evening in mid-October of last 
year, my gunning partner and I found 
ourselves with our guns and shell cases 
on the train for Gloucester. We lit our 
pipes and discussed the prospects for 
the morrow, and, as we were crossing 
the Lynn marshes, we looked out over 
the pools, red with the light of the set- 
734 
Setting out a string of stools. 

ting sun, straining our eyes to see if 
any black duck had settled there for 
the night. Finally we arrived in Glou- 
cester, purchased a few provisions, and 
hired a “flivver” to transport us and 
our baggage to camp. By the time we 
had reached our destination, it was 
nine o’clock so we immediately set 
about getting things in readiness for 
the morning. 
There is a certain fascination and 
mystery about the sea at night. When 
we got down to the boat house it was 
half-tide and we could hear the dull 
roar of the surf on the bar. The pun- 
gent odor of kelp and seaweed was 
borne strongly to our 
nostrils on the salt air. 
One could almost cut 
the blackness for the 
moon had not yet risen. 
At our approach sev- 
eral bitterns§ sprang 
flapping from the 
shore, uttering their 
harsh “quarks.” Inside 
the boathouse, aged 
and weather-beaten by 
many winter storms, 
new odors arose, paint, 
tar, wet ropes, all 
strongly reminiscent of 
other days and other 
hunts. The rays of our 
lantern disclosed our 
dory and the buoys, an- 
chors, ropes and oars hung along the 
walls, while in the corner our decoys 
stood piled and nested. 
It was the work of a few moments 
for us to launch our dory, and, making 
it fast to the floats, we brought down 
our equipment. Our decoys are stowed 
in the stern, first the blocks then the 
nested “shadows.” Anchor and buoy 
are placed in the bow, and oars, bailer, 
compass, etc., are put in their respec- 
tive places. At last all was shipshape 
for the morning and we returned to 
the shack to continue our preparations. 

Mark west! 
A Day with 
the 
Sea Fowl 
The Coot or Scoter of 
Ipswich Bay is a Fast 
Flier 
By PIERRE CHOUTEAU, JR. 
We dug our hunting clothes out of the 
sea chests and hung them near the 
stove. Shell vests were then filled and 
cooking gear laid out for breakfast. 
At last we made our beds, set the alarm 
clock and turned in. 
pA much tossing and turning, © 
while through closed eyes we saw 
flock after flock pass in review to re- 
ceive our leaden salute, we fell asleep. 
Seemingly five minutes thereafter the 
clock jangled it’s most inharmonious 
reveille. It was dark and cold and our 
- blankets seemed infinitely preferable to 
the frigid murk outside. Our enthu- 
siasm for the sport far 
outweighing all 
thought for human 
comfort, we leaped out 
of our bunks in a mad 
scramble for the clothes 
we had hung by the 
stove. Silently we got 
our breakfast, yawning 
and shivering, but once 
a cup of good hot coffee 
was stowed away, we 
felt better and conver- 
sation flourished. Was 
it clear? Where was 
the wind? Could we 
cross the bar outside 
at this stage of tide? 
These and like ques- 
tions we asked, an- 
swered and guessed at. 
After our hurried meal and a final 
look around to make sure that nothing 
had been forgotten, we took our guns 
and went down to the floats. A great 
silence broken only by the booming of 
the surf enveloped everything, and the 
water was inky black in the shadows. 
Across the bay the sand dunes seemed 
snow covered in the moonlight. All 
these things reacted upon us and once 
more we lapsed into silence. We got 
onto the boat, shoved off and rowed. 
“Outside or inside?” queried Jim. 

