Plover Shooting in Virginia

NORTHAMPTON, VA., September 5, 1873.

EDITOR FOREST AND STREAM: --

NOTWITHSTANDING the numerous assurances I had received that it was useless for me to expect get plover, I determined, before leaving for New York, to try a morning's shooting in this locality, especially as I had an invitation from a Virginia friend, a thorough sportsman, who was well acquainted with all the localities most likely to be frequented by this rather shy bird.

I found my friend ready to receive me, with horse and buggy. He assured me of the excellence of his horse, not as to speed, but as to his stalking powers, as he informed me that he had shot behind him for the last thirteen years. Plover can generally be readily approached by the sportsman, when he is in a buggy. We drove not more than three-quarters of a mile from the house, and it was about half-past five o'clock in the morning, when my friend informed me that we were in what was, in former years, the best place for plover in Virginia. The sea was about half a mile distant, and a long watery bog stretched just here, parallel with the beach. The soil was covered with the tough, wiry, salt grass, though here and there stood isolated clumps of trees, and an occasional thicket. The plover roosts somewhat more inland, and betakes himself at dawn to feed on the grubs and small slugs he may find in the marshes. My friend was rather fearful that the sport would be poor, and he informed me that every year the birds were getting scarcer. Ten years ago, he told me, that just where we were then, he had often killed thirty plover between sunrise and nine o'clock. We were driving towards a neighboring clump of trees, through rather soggy ground, when he sighted five plover flying at a distance beyond us, entirely out of gun shot. We remained quite in the buggy, when my companion took a "call" from his pocket, made from the bone of a curlew, and piped the shrill cry of the plover. As we were well covered by the trees, the birds answered the call instantly, and flew straight towards us, when, both of us firing at about twenty-five yards, we killed three fine birds. Old Bob -- the horse -- stood fire admirably, never budging. This early success somewhat inspirited my friend, and as the wind was blowing on the shore, the best condition for plover shooting, we had hopes of making a good bag. We waited, however, at this same spot for fully two hours more, but could see no birds. Old Bob was urged on, and, as we went along, breakfast was in order, and I, for the first time, ate cold roasted coon, which is a morsel by no means to be despised, especially when a cool sea-breeze whets the appetite. Jogging leisurely along, we must have proceeded quite two miles, when before me, about 200 yards distance, I saw quite a flock of plover. They were scattered over an area of fully an acre, and, perhaps, numbered forty. We got out of the buggy -- slipping out behind, and clucking to Bob, we followed in the wake of the wagon. When within fifty yards of the birds, a word from us brought Bob to a full stop, and crouching down on our hands and knees, we slowly approached the plover, and when within thirty yards, we flushed them. They rose en masse, pretty close together, when my friend, with his Lancaster, and I with my Snyder-Allen, let them have the four barrels, and nine birds fell. We could do nothing more with the flock, as they flew off three-quarters of a mile, to a point where we could not drive. After collecting the birds, we made for a good-sized clump of woods, some mile and a half distant, when we came to a cross-road. Bob was tied up, and a feed left for him, while we walked through the woods, shooting an occasional rabbit. The sun being oppressively hot, we remained there through the heat of the day, looking up some fox traps, which the Negroes had set. We found in the Newhouse-traps one very handsome dog fox and two cubs, which we dispatched, setting the traps anew with some birds my friend had brought with him for that purpose. About five o'clock we retraced our steps, killing five more plover, all of them single birds. Total bag for the day, eighteen birds. Plover are by no means an easy bird to kill; they are very swift flyers, when on the wind, though their flight is limited as to distance. I should recommend No. 7 shot in all cases. If plover are hard to find, this does not arise from over-shooting. I must attribute their growing scarcity to the reasons stated by me in my last letter to you from Mockhorn (providing Jake reached Cherrystone with my last letter to you). I attributed, therein, the scarcity of plover to the constant destruction of their eggs in this part of Virginia.

Sincerely yours,

C. B.