As it was fairly smooth we chose an 
outside berth. We rowed. Before long 
we heard the creak of oars and knew 
that other shooters were on their way. 
Several fishing boats passed us putt- 
putting softly out to sea. At last we 
reached our chosen spot. Jim shipped 
his oars and stood by to set the “coys.” 
I pointed the boat down wind and the 
first decoy anchor went over with a 
dull plop. Jim passed out the “‘sha- 
dows” then the “blocks,” while I rowed 
back up wind, drawing our line of de- 
coys into a crescent. The other decoy 
was then cast over and the set was 
complete. We came to anchor some 
twenty-five or thirty yards up wind 
from the center of the crescent and, 
shipping our oars, loading our guns, 
and otherwise getting things shipshape, 
we began our vigil. 
EANWHILE the sun is just com- 
ing up, apparently out of the sea, 
flooding the distant dunes with a wave 
of rosy light, and flocks of coot are 
scudding across the horizon, low down 
over the water. 
Suddenly Jim whispered “Look!” as 
a pair of coot headed for our stool. 
They came straight for us, not veering 
an inch, and, after an eternity, “stood 
on their tails,” their feet spread and 
feeling for the water. Two shots rang 
out almost as one, and I saw my bird 
fall off the end of my gun barrel, but 
he was a “crip” and dived the moment 
he struck the water. Jim had better 
luck however, for his bird was floating 
limply—on the water. 
Suddenly my bird re- 
appeared, almost in 
the same spot where 
he went down, show- 
ing that he was hit in 
the wings. Another 
shot and he stretched 
out on the waves. We 
hove the anchor buoy 
overboard, rowed down 
and retrieved our birds. 
“Good _ start,” ob- 
served Jim. The birds 
were moving well now 
and hardly had we got- 
ten back into position 
when a flock of five 
raced by. They saw 
our decoys, however, 
swung back up wind, and decoyed 
beautifully. We gave them a volley. 
Our shots fired netted us three birds. 
Y this time it had developed into 
a perfect fall day, and the warm 
rays of the sun felt grateful to our 
chilled bodies, for the wind was a trifle 
sharp. Many loons flew by uttering 
their weird cries and inspecting us cu- 
riously. As they are now protected by 
Uncle Sam, we merely watched them, 
listening to the whistle of their wings 

A clean shot. 

which is music to the ears of any wild- 
fowler. The bay had now become dot- 
ted with other boats and hunters, and 
constant shots made us turn frequent- 
ly to see what was the cause of the 
disturbance. Four more flocks came 
to our decoys during the morning, and, 
when the flight stopped, about eleven 
o’clock, we had seventeen birds. Then 
it became very quiet and no birds had 
been moving for possibly half an hour. 
Jim and I were eating pilot bread, 
spread thickly with peanut butter, and 
drinking coffee from our thermos bot- 
tles while we discussed the incidents 
of the morning’s flight. 
It occurred to me then, as we were 
sitting there in the 
clear warm _ sunlight, 
that this is probably 
the chief enjoyment of 
the sport. The tran- 
quility that comes over 
one who appreciates 
and loves the big 
things of the great out- 
doors must be felt to 
be understood, for no 
pen is adequate to de- 
scribe it. To our right, 
numerous gulls _ sail 
and squawk over the 
bar and crows flap 
lazily over the dunes 
'and marsh. The sea 
reflects the deep blue 
of the October sky and 
glistens in the sunlight. To our left 
stretches the broad horizon, dotted here 
and there with fishing craft. All is 
peace and quiet. We smoke and talk, 
smoothing the glossy plumage of our 
birds, and feeling that regret at hav- 
ing taken their lives, which only true 
sportsmen can understand. Yet they 
were all killed fairly, in the air, and 
our consciences are at ease. 
Suddenly our meditations are inter- 
rupted by the clear whistle of a “beetle 

Loading the dory in preparatio 
head” or black breasted plover. We 
answered and soon we made him out, 
high up, cutting across the bay from 
the marsh. He came to our call and 
dropped lower to investigate, while we 
sat motionless waiting for him to come 
within range. As I discovered him the 
first shot belonged to me, so, as he 
passed us scarce twenty yards away, 
I raised my gun and fired. The charge 
caught him squarely, killing him in- 
stantly, and for an instant he seemed 
to hang in mid-air, the sun shining on 
his glossy breast, then he crumpled and 
dropped into the water. On retriev- 
ing, we found him to be a beautifully 
marked male, full grown and as big 
as a pigeon, and we congratulated our- 
selves on our good luck in this unusual 
incident. 
UT while we were admiring the plu- 
mage and size of our plover, a veri- 
table bombardment shattered ‘the si- 
lence a half mile up wind from us. 
Turning to look, we saw a long black 
line of coot, low over the water and 
winging steadily toward us. Again we 
crouched motionless, praying that they 
would decoy. They did, and the air 
was filled with the fluttering wings and 
spread feet of the birds as they criss- 
crossed in front of us, trying to alight. 
A signal from Jim and we opened up. 
As the shots rippede out it seemed to 
rain coot. A quick re-loading, three 
more shots to finish the crips, and we 
rowed down wind to retrieve our prizes. 
Six times our dip-net reached over the 
side and each time it returned with a 
plump and glossy coot. The chance of 
a big flock decoying so perfectly does 
not come often, and we were elated to 
have made good. 
Coming to anchor, we had a consid- 
erable wait before anything came our 
way. Then, far-off, we saw five dark 
specks, one of which was very small, 
(Continued on page 768) 
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