PIGEON TUESDAY AND ITS EXPLOITS
Davy Fiske had become a weaver, as I said, and as there were several
David Fiskes in town, he was called Weaver David. We used to send yarn
up to him to weave, and I wore clothes made of cloth that came from his
loom. Early that same spring he came down to the blacksmith's shop with
one of his father's horses to be shod, and as I was getting ready, said:
"Ben, it's awful to see the boys going off to the war, having all this
fun fighting the French and Indians, and to be shut up in that
confounded loom, listening to its clatter, when there's so much going
on. Jonathan and John have just gone off again, and I must stay at home.
But the pigeons are flying now, and next Tuesday will be Pigeon Tuesday.
They always fly on that day. And there will be rafts of them flying
down to the shore. I suppose they go to get a taste of salt, and must
have it, just like the cattle. Amos Locke and I are going after them up
on Bull Meadow Hill, and we want you to come too."
[Sidenote: WILD PIGEONS]
"I'll go, Davy, if I can get off."
After I had shod the horse, I spoke to Mr. Harrington about it. He said:
"You won't need but half a day, Ben. The shooting will be all over by
nine o'clock, and you can come back and work in the afternoon."
In the spring flights of pigeons came north very early. They lived in
the woods and swamps, and as soon as it began to be light flew down to
the shore.
As they came along, we used to toll them down with our decoys. The
flight was almost always over by nine o'clock.
When they returned in the evening, they paid no attention to decoys, but
made straight for their roost.
Tuesday morning, I was at Davy's house a couple of hours before sunrise
and, as usual, found him grumbling because I had not come an hour
earlier.
There was a bright moon, and we had plenty of light as we walked over
the fields, and Davy told me wonderful stories of his hunting. He was
full of superstitions, and had settled on this day as the one particular
day in the year when there would be a great flight of pigeons.
"Pigeon Hill, off there to our right, is a pretty good place for
pigeons. It's on our land, and I've got a pigeon rig up there. But Bull
Meadow Hill is higher and a good deal better. It belongs to Amos's
folks. He has a pigeon rig and pole on it, and it will be all ready.
Amos says Bull Meadow got its name because a bull was drowned in a ditch
there nigh on to a hundred years ago."
We reached Bull Meadow and went up the hill. Amos was there waiting for
us.
"Where have you fellows b-been? I've been at work here for an hour and
have got things pretty near ready. I put some new boughs on the booth so
that it l-looks all r-right, and I've got a couple of flyers and a
flutterer in that basket."
We entered the booth from the rear. The front was open from the
covering to within three feet of the ground, so that we could stand up
and shoot, and when we crouched down, would be hidden.
[Sidenote: THE PIGEON RIG]
In front of the booth was a post about four feet high, in one side of
which the end of a pole about five feet long was fastened so that it
worked as if on a hinge. A string was tied to the pole and ran over the
top of the post. By pulling the string, the further end of the pole
could be raised or lowered by a person in the booth. Further from the
booth the top and branches of a small tree had been cut off, leaving a
standard twelve feet high, and to this a pole about twenty feet long had
been fastened, so that it looked a good deal like a well sweep.
The end of the pole pointed toward the hut, but not directly. It slanted
a little to one side in order that when the pigeons lighted on the pole
we could get a good raking shot at them. Our pigeons had soft pads of
leather called boots sewed round each leg to protect them from the
strings which we fastened to them. We tied the strings to the boots of
a pigeon, sewed a bandage over his eyes, and tied him to the further end
of the pigeon stool. This was the stool pigeon. We also called him the
flutterer or hoverer.
"Now give us the flyers."
Amos took out two more pigeons, and we tied long and strong strings to
their boots.
"Now they're ready. But there's hardly enough string for the long flyer.
We ought to let him go up at least forty feet."
"Cut a little off the string of the short flyer then, and tie it on to
the other. The strings were the same length."
We looked round, to see if any pigeons were flying, but none were in
sight.
"There don't seem to be any about. I'm afraid, Davy, Pigeon Tuesday
won't be a success this time."
"You wait. They'll be here by and by."
"They're f-flying well now. I was f-fishing in Swithin Reed's mill
p-pond, yesterday afternoon, and Venus Roe came over and said that
Swithin shot a lot of pigeons in the m-morning."
[Sidenote: A FLIGHT IN SIGHT]
"Venus Roe! Who's she?"
"D-don't you know? She's a little n-nigger girl about twelve years old,
and belongs to Swithin. Some one in B-Boston gave her to him when she
was a baby."
"Oh, yes! I remember now. I've heard father tell of meeting Swithin
riding out from Boston, with a keg of rum in one saddle bag, and out of
the other was sticking the head of a three-year-old nigger."
"Here comes a flight. Send up your long flyer, Amos."
Amos threw the flyer up. We watched the pigeons. They seemed to be
coming toward us.
"Now send up the short flyers."
"They're coming to us. Pull the flyers down and keep hidden. Pull away
at the string, Ben, and work the pole, so that the hoverer will keep his
wings fluttering. Keep on, Ben. They see him."
The pigeons flew toward the flutterer, made a swirl in the air, and
began to light on the pigeon pole. We took up our guns, and as they were
hovering about the pole, trying to get a foothold, we fired, and ran
out and picked up twenty-nine pigeons.
"That isn't bad," said Davy. "I tell you, Pigeon Tuesday is the day.
There will be more along soon."
The sky was all crimson and gold in the east. We looked toward Mt.
Gilboa; the red face of the sun began to show itself. As it rose above
the hill, we heard the stroke of the bell.
"Some one's d-dead.--Hark! Only one stroke. It's a child. One for a
c-child, two for a woman, and three strokes for a man."
"I know who it is. Father was called up to Sam Hadley's last night.
Little Benoni Mead was very poorly, and they didn't think he'd last
through the night."
Poor little Benoni! His father, Cornelius Mead, had died of camp fever
in the war; his mother and he had come on the town for support, and had
been boarded with her brother, Sam Hadley, not far from Bull Meadow
Hill. Benoni had always been ailing, and of late had failed rapidly.
[Sidenote: ANOTHER FLIGHT OF PIGEONS]
"Well, boys," said Davy, "let's get back to work. It won't do Benoni any
good to be mooning round."
We watched for pigeons again, and another small flight came along. We
worked our decoys and got twenty.
After that we waited a long time,--till nearly nine o'clock. Then Davy
and I gave it up, and decided to go home. Davy had some work to do. But
Amos said he would stay a little while longer. We made a division of our
pigeons, and Davy and I started for home.
We had not gone more than half a mile when we saw a terrible big flight.
"I wonder if Amos will get a shot at them, Ben. Let's get back as quick
as we can. We may be in time."
We threw down our pigeons, and made through the woods as fast as we
could. As we were running up the hill, we heard a bang.
"Confound the luck," said Davy, "we're just too late! Let's hurry up and
help Amos."
When we got to the top of the hill Amos was running round, twisting the
necks of the wounded pigeons. As soon as he saw us, he stood up and
began:--
"H-H-He--" But he was too excited, and couldn't get the words out. He
pointed to the pigeons, and kept on catching them and twisting their
necks. We did the same. When we got through, Davy asked, "What was it
that you were saying to us when we got here? I didn't quite catch it."
"No! It sort er st-stuck on the way; 'h-help me' is pretty hard to say
sometimes. I t-t-tell you, b-boys, there was millions of 'em, an-and I
guess I shot a barrel full. When I saw that b-big flight coming, I
wished you were here, and then I was g-glad you were not. For I w-wanted
to see h-how many I should get. They came just like a b-big cloud, and
began to light on that p-pole, and the air was just f-full of them. You
c-couldn't see anything but pigeons. I blazed away, and the ground was
c-covered with them.
"I was t-tickled enough to see you fellows jump in and help me. I
w-wonder how many there are. Let's count them."
[Sidenote: AMOS MAKES A GREAT SHOT]
We gathered them up, and there were fifty-two.
"Hurrah! One f-for every week in the year!"
Amos had a good many adventures in his life afterward, fighting with the
French and Indians. But that shot was the one particular thing that made
life a joy to him.