I have tried dawn fishing, and found it wanting. I have tried dawn
hunting in the woods, after "partridges," and found it not all that
Jonathan, in his buoyant enthusiasm, appears to think it. And so, when
he grew eloquent regarding the delights of dawn hunting on the marshes,
I was not easily fired. I even referred, though very considerately, to
some of our previous experiences in affairs of this nature, and
confessed a certain reluctance to experiment further along these lines.
"Well, you have had a run of hard luck," he admitted tolerantly, "but
you'll find the plover-shooting different. I know you won't be sorry."
I do not mean to be narrow or prejudiced, and so I consented, though
rather hesitatingly, to try one more dawn adventure.
We packed up our guns, ammunition, extra wraps, rubber boots, and alarm
clock. These five things are essential--nay, six are necessary to real
content, and the sixth is a bottle of tar and sweet oil. But of that
more anon.
Thus equipped, we went down to a tiny cottage on the shore. We reached
the village at dusk, stopped at "the store" to buy bread and butter and
fruit, then went on to the little white house that we knew would always
be ready to receive us. It has served us as a hunting-lodge many times
before, and has always treated us well.
There is something very pleasant about going back to a well-known place
of this sort. It offers the joy of home and the joy of camping, the
charm of strangeness and the charm of familiarity. We light the candles
and look about. Ah, yes! There are the magazines we left last winter
when we came down for the duck-shooting, there is the bottle of ink we
got to fill our pens one stormy day last spring in the trout season,
when the downpour quenched the zeal even of Jonathan. In the pantry are
the jars of sugar and salt and cereals and tea and coffee and bacon; in
the kitchen are the oil stoves ready to light; in the dining-room are
the ashes of our last fire.
Contentedly I set about making tea and arranging the supper-table, while
Jonathan took a basket and pitcher and went off to a neighbor for eggs
and milk. We made a fire on the hearth, toasted bread over the embers,
and supped frugally but very cozily.
Afterwards came the setting of the alarm clock--a matter of critical
importance.
"What hour shall it be?" inquired Jonathan, his finger on the regulator.
"Whenever you think best," I answered cheerfully.
Now, as we both understood, I had no real intention of being literally
guided by what Jonathan thought best,--that would have been too
rash,--but it opened negotiations pleasantly to say so.
Jonathan, trying to be obliging against his better judgment, suggested,
"Well--six o'clock?"
But I refused any such tremendous concession, knowing that I should have
to bear the ignominy of it if the adventure proved unfortunate. "No, of
course not. Six is much too late. Anybody can get up at six."
"Well, then," he brightened; "say five?"
"Five," I meditated. "No, it's quite light at five. We ought to be out
there at daylight, you said."
Jonathan visibly expanded. He realized that I was behaving very well. I
thought so myself, and it made us both very amiable.
"Yes," he admitted, "we ought to be, of course. And it will take three
quarters of an hour to drive out there. Add fifteen minutes to that for
breakfast, and fifteen minutes to dress--would a quarter to four be too
outrageous?"
"Oh, make it half-past three," I rejoined recklessly, in a burst of
self-sacrifice.
At least I would not spoke our wheels by slothfulness. The clock was set
accordingly, and I went to sleep enveloped in virtue as in a garment,
the sound of the sea in my ears.
* * * * *
_Br-r-r-r-r-r-r-r!_ What _has_ happened? Oh, the alarm clock! It can't
be more than twelve o'clock. I hear the spit of a match, then "Half-past
three," from Jonathan. "No!" I protest. "Yes," he persists, and though
his voice is still veiled in sleep, I detect in it a firmness to which I
foresee I shall yield. My virtue of last night has faded completely,
but his zeal is fast colors. I am ready to back out, but, dimly
remembering my Spartan attitude of the night before, I don't dare. Thus
are we enslaved by our virtues. I submit, with only one word of
comment--"And we call this pleasure!" To which Jonathan wisely makes no
response.
We groped our way downstairs, lighted another candle, and sleepily
devoured some sandwiches and milk--a necessary but cheerless process,
with all the coziness of the night before conspicuously left out. We
heard the carriage being brought up outside, we snatched up our
wraps,--sweaters, shawls, coats,--Jonathan picked up the valise with the
hunting equipment, we blew out the candles, and went out into the chilly
darkness. As our eyes became accustomed to the change, we perceived that
the sky was not quite black, but gray, and that the stars were fewer
than in the real night. We got in, tucked ourselves up snugly, and
started off down the road stretching faintly before us. The horse's
steps sounded very loud, and echoed curiously against the silent houses
as we passed. As we went on, the sky grew paler, here and there in the
houses a candle gleamed, in the barnyards a lantern flashed--the farmer
was astir. Yes, dawn was really coming.
After a few miles we turned off the main highway to take the rut road
through the great marsh. The smell of the salt flats was about us, and
the sound of the sea was growing more clear again. A big bird whirred
off from the marsh close beside us. "Meadowlark," murmured Jonathan.
Another little one, with silent, low flight, then more. "Sandpipers," he
commented; "we don't want them." The patient horse plodded along, now in
damp marsh soil, now in dry, deep sand, to the hitching-place by an old
barn on the cliff.
As we pulled up, Jonathan took a little bottle out of his pocket and
handed it to me. "Better put it on now," he said.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Tar and sweet oil--for the mosquitoes."
I smelled of it with suspicion. It was a dark, gummy liquid. "I think I
prefer the mosquitoes."
"You do!" said Jonathan. "You'll think again pretty soon. Here, let me
have it." He had tied the horse and blanketed him, and now proceeded to
smear himself with the stuff--face, neck, hands. "You needn't look at me
that way!" he remarked genially; "you'll be doing it yourself soon. Just
wait."
We took our guns and cartridges, and plunged down from the cliff to the
marsh. As we did so there rose about me a brown cloud, which in a moment
I realized was composed of mosquitoes--a crazy, savage, bloodthirsty
mob. They beset me on all sides,--they were in my hair, my eyes, nose,
ears, mouth, neck. I brushed frantically at them, but a drowning man
might as well try to brush back the water as it closes in.
"Where's the bottle?" I gasped.
"What bottle?" said Jonathan, innocently. Jonathan is human.
"The tar and sweet oil. Quick!"
"Oh! I thought you preferred the mosquitoes." Yes, Jonathan _is_ human.
"Never mind what you _thought_!" and I snatched greedily at the blessed
little bottle.
I poured the horrid stuff on my face, my neck, my hands, I
out-Jonathaned Jonathan; then I took a deep breath of relief as the
mosquito mob withdrew to a respectful distance. Jonathan reached for
the bottle.
"Oh, I can just as well carry it," I said, and tucked it into one of my
hunting-coat pockets.
Jonathan chuckled gently, but I did not care. Nothing should part me
from that little bottle of ill-smelling stuff.
We started on again, out across the marsh. Enough light had come to show
us the gray-green level, full of mists and little glimmers of water, and
dotted with low haycocks, their dull, tawny yellow showing softly in the
faint dawn light.
"Hark!" said Jonathan.
We paused. Through the fog came a faint, whistling call, in descending
half-tones, indescribable, coming out of nowhere, sounding now close
beside us, now very far away.
"Yellowlegs," said Jonathan. "We aren't a bit too soon."
We pushed out into the midst of the marsh, now sinking knee-deep in the
spongy bed, now walking easily on a stretch of firm turf, now stepping
carefully over a boundary ditch of unknown depth--out to the haycocks,
where we sank down, each beside one, to wait for the birds to move.
I do not know how long we waited. The haycock was warm, the night wind
had fallen, the gray sky was turning white, with primrose tones in the
east; the morning star paled and disappeared; the marsh mists partly
lifted, and revealed far inland the soft, dark masses of encircling
woods. And every little while came the whistling call, plaintive, yet
curiously hurried, coming from nowhere. I lay back against the hay, and,
contrary to orders, I let my gun slip down beside me. The fact was, I
had half forgotten that anything definite was expected of me, and when
suddenly I heard a warning "Look out!" from Jonathan's mow, I was in no
way prepared. There was a rush of wings; the air was full of the
whistling notes of the birds as they flew; they passed over us,
circling, rising, sinking, sweeping far up the marsh, then, as Jonathan
whistled their call, circling back again out of the mist at incredible
speed.
Probably it would have made no difference if I had been prepared. A new
kind of game always leaves me dazed, and now I watched them,
spellbound, until I heard Jonathan shoot. Then I made a great effort,
pulled at my trigger, and rolled backwards from my haycock into the
spongy swamp, inches deep with water just there.