As a general rule our guns should be put away for a long rest before the
summer vacation. There is, however, one game situation which justifies
their use, and it is this situation which sometimes appropriately allows
a small-gauge gun to be placed beside the rod and reel in making up a
vacation outfit.
In July or August the summer migration from their breeding places in
the far North brings shore-birds and plover--both old and full-grown
young--along our Eastern coast, in first-rate condition. My experience
in shooting this game has all been within recent years, and almost
entirely in the marshes and along the shores of Cape Cod. Like other
members of the present generation and later comers in a limited field, I
have been obliged to hear with tiresome iteration the old, old story of
gray-haired men who tell of the "arms and the man" who in days gone by,
on this identical ground, have slain these birds by thousands. The
embellishment of these tales by all the incidents that mark the progress
of our people in game extermination I have accepted as furnishing an
explanation of the meager success of many of my excursions; but at the
same time my condemnation of the methods of the inconsiderate
slaughterers who preceded me has led to a consoling consciousness of my
own superior sporting virtues.
While I am willing to confess to considerable resentment against those
who in their shooting days were thoughtless enough to forget that I was
to come after them, it must by no means be understood that my gunning
for shore-birds has been discouraging. I have made some fair bags, and
any bag is large enough for me, providing I have lost no opportunities
and have shot well. Besides, I have never indulged in any shooting so
conducive to the stimulation and strengthening of the incomparable
virtue of patience. I have sat in a blind for five hours, by the
watch--and awake nearly all the time at that--without seeing or hearing
a bird worth shooting.
It is, however, neither the killing of birds nor the cultivation of
patience that has exacted my absolute submission to the fascination of
shore-bird shooting on Cape Cod. It is hard to explain this fascination,
but my notion is that it grows out of a conceited attempt to calculate
the direction of the wind and other weather conditions over-night, the
elaborate preparations for a daylight start, the uncertainties of the
pursuit under any conditions, the hope, amounting almost to expectation,
that notwithstanding this the wisdom and calculation expended in
determining upon the trip will be vindicated, the delightful early
morning drive to the grounds, the anticipation of a flight of birds
every moment while there, and the final sustaining expectation of their
arrival in any event just before night. The singular thing in my case
is that if all goes wrong at last, and even if under the influence of
fatigue and disappointment I resolve during the drive home in chill and
darkness that the trip will not be repeated for many a long day, it is
quite certain that within forty-eight hours I shall be again observing
the weather and guessing what the direction of the wind will be the next
morning, in contemplation of another start.
But some will say, how are the incidents of hope and expectation,
or of preparation and calculation, which are common to all sporting
excursions, made to account for this especial infatuation with
shore-bird shooting? I shall answer this question as well as I can by
suggesting that the difference is one of degree. In gunning for other
game one knows, or thinks he knows, where it is or ought to be. The wind
and weather, while not entirely ignored, usually have a subordinate
place in preliminary calculation, and the pleasures of hope and
expectation are kept within the limits of ability or luck in finding the
game. On the other hand, the shore-bird hunter knows not the abiding
place of his game. He knows that at times during certain summer months
these birds pass southward in their long migration, but he cannot know
whether they will keep far out at sea or will on some unknown day be
driven by wind and weather to the shore for temporary rest and feeding,
and thus give him his opportunity. Though the presence on marsh or shore
of a few bird stragglers may put him on his guard, it must still remain
a question whether the game in sufficient quantities to make good
shooting is hundreds or thousands of miles away or in the neighborhood
of the shooting grounds.
I believe the unusual contingencies of shore-bird shooting and the wider
scope they give for hope and expectation, together with the manifold
conditions which give abundant opportunity for self-conceit in
calculating probabilities, account for its quality of exceptional
fascination.
The sportsman who persists is apt occasionally to find a good number of
birds about the grounds; and when that happens, if he is adequately
equipped with good decoys, and the right spirit, and especially if he is
able to call the birds, he will enjoy a variety of fine shooting. The
initiated well understand the importance of the call, and they know that
the best caller will get the most birds. The notes of shore-birds,
though quite dissimilar, are in most cases easily imitated after a
little practice, and a simply constructed contrivance which can be
purchased at almost any sporting goods store will answer for all the
game if properly used. The birds are usually heard before they are
seen, and if their notes are answered naturally and not too vehemently
or too often, they will soon be seen within shooting range, whether they
are Black-Breasted Plover, Chicken Plover, Yellow Legs, Piping Plover,
Curlew, Sanderlings or Grass Birds. Of course, no decent hunter allows
them to alight before he shoots.
I would not advise the summer vacationist who lacks the genuine sporting
spirit to pursue the shore-bird. Those who do so should not disgrace
themselves by killing the handsome little sand-pipers or peeps too small
to eat. It is better to go home with nothing killed than to feel the
weight of a mean, unsportsmanlike act.