A Morning with the Shore Birds
WHEN one has been tied down to business for several years, his only change, a day afield now and then with dog and gun, in a neighborhood where game to be found and killed must be fagged for and the gun held very straight, to such a one the prospect of a vacation, either short or long, sets the blood to moving more freely and the imagination to working more actively. Well! that was my case. A certain friend had returned from several years' ranching in Texas, and, as he expressed it, was "dying for a sniff of salt water." So the time and circumstances being propitious, moreover being myself equally desirous for the salt sea air, we were not long in making preparations, which consisted principally of ammunition, our intention being to enjoy not only the usual delights of the sea shore but "bay bird" shooting, providing, of course, the birds were there.
Our shooting clothes, with decoys, were put into an old single trunk, and we were ready. We took the steamer at B., and enjoyed the all-night sail down the bay and up the winding Wicomico River, the next morning, and still more, the excellent railroad service from Salisbury to Ocean City, our destination; the latter so different from what the traveler had to endure until the Pennsylvania R. R. got hold of it and injected life into the W. & P. R. R., which before was put to shame by any real lively horse car line.
We landed safely in Ocean City in time for a late breakfast. Being an old habitue it came to me to introduce my friend to all the old friends among the longshore men, and especially Capt. Tom, my favorite boatman. Tom informed us that there were "right smart of birds," and we decided to take his boat and start down that night, "for," said he, "we have to go furder down now than ever." About 8 o'clock we sailed out upon the broad Tenepuxent Bay, and with a fair breeze the Jane went along at a good speed.
At 12 o'clock we turned into a cove about ten miles down, and making ourselves comfortable, went to sleep. Just at daybreak Tom called us up, and hastily eating a light lunch, we loaded ourselves with cartridges, decoys, water canteens, guns, etc., and strode manfully across the miles of sandy meadow to the other side of the island along the ocean. The mosquitoes made it lively for us until the fresh morning sea breeze from off the water drove them back. It was yet dark when we reached the beach, and as soon as Tom dug the blind we lighted our pipes and lay back on the rubber blanket to enjoy the delicious breeze, cool, salt and damp, adding additional fragrance to the tobacco. Suddenly it seemed lighter, then streaks of color began to stand out against the eastern sky, changing fast into golden light, our decoys became visible, with a flock of active little sandpipers busily feeding among them. A low "mark" from Tom called me from musing to business, the gun was grasped, a sidelong glance showed that Carl was ready for the little bunch of willet flying low over the tumbling surf. Now Tom gave a low whistle, and instantly they noticed the decoys, set their white-barred wings, and sailed in over their one-legged representatives, dropping their own slender blue legs to stop. Bang! bang! bang! went the Parker. Bang! bang! bang! bang! the Winchesters rattled and roared; the smoked cleared away and five dead or crippled willet were left behind by the remainder of the sadly demoralized flock. Tom gathered them up as fast as possible.
The sun had appeared, and now, if at all, our shooting was at hand. Down close, yonder is a big bunch, here they come. Now! And again the battery roared. Seven down! Here comes one back. Bang! and it joins the dead. Now it is a single bird. Carl dropped it neatly in the nearest ripples. Now it is a pair. He misses the leader with his first, drops it way out with the second.
Mine is killed with first shot. Once five birds came in, and none go out; but both our guns are empty when the last one falls into the surf. Once I killed a pair, but missed quite a number of double shots on account of the hard pull of the trigger.
The flight was not a large success, and only netted us thirty birds -- twenty-six willet, two calico backs, and two "hill head" plover; so for want of better amusement, the tide being low and no birds moving but the little sandpipers, we began taking turn about shots for pennies -- two pennies in "the pot," the shooter takes the pot if he kills. This became tame after a bit, and we decided to take up and go home. Two hours later we were at the hotel, our birds in the kitchen, and ourselves a few minutes later in the glorious surf, enjoying our first bath.
ELLICOTT CITY.
PICUS.