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[pg 172] 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.[pg 173]
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?"[pg 174]
"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[pg 175] 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[pg 176] 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[pg 177] 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[pg 178] 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[pg 179] 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[pg 180] 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.
jonathan called across softly, "shot both barrels, didn't you?"
i rose slowly, wishing there were some way of wringing out my entire back. "of course not!" i gasped indignantly.
"think not?" very benevolently from the other cock. "'twouldn't have kicked like that if you hadn't. look at your gun and see."
i reseated myself damply upon the haycock. "i tell you i didn't. why should i shoot both at once, i'd like to know! i—never—"
here i stopped, for as i broke open my gun i saw two dented cartridges, and as i pulled them out white smoke rolled from both barrels. there seemed nothing further to be said, at least by a woman, so i said nothing. jonathan also, though human, said nothing. it is crises like these that test character. i turned my cool back to the east, that the rising sun, if it ever really got thoroughly risen, might[pg 181] warm it, and grimly reloaded. jonathan continued his call to the birds, and when they returned again i behaved better.
by seven o'clock the birds had scattered, and we left our places to go back to the horse. on the way we encountered two hunters wandering rather disconsolately over the marsh. they stopped us to ask what luck, and we tried not to look too self-satisfied, but probably they read our success in our arrogant faces, streaked with tar and sweet oil as they were. possibly the bulge of our hunting-coat pockets helped to tell the story.
"how long have you been out here?" they asked enviously.
"two hours or so," said jonathan.
"how'd you get out so early?"
"we got up early," said jonathan, with admirable simplicity.
the strangers looked at him twice to see if he meant to jeer, but he appeared impenetrably innocent, and they finally laughed, a little ruefully, and went on out into the marsh we were just leaving. why does it make one feel so immeasurably superior to get up a few hours before other people?
we drove home along the sunny road, where the bakers' carts and meat wagons were already astir. could it be the same road that a few hours before had been so cold and gray and still? were these bare white houses the same that had nestled so cozily into the dark of the roadside? we reached our own plain little white house and went in. in the dining-room our candles and the remains of our midnight breakfast on the table seemed like relics of some previous state of existence. sleepily i set things in order for a real breakfast, a hot breakfast, a breakfast that should be cozy. drowsily we ate, but contentedly. everything since the night before seemed like a dream.
it still seems so. but of all the dream the most vivid part—more vivid even than the alarm clock, more real than my tumble into wetness—is the vision that remains with me of mist-swept marsh, all gray and green and yellow, with tawny haycocks and glimmerings of water and whirrings of wings and whistling bird notes and the salt smell of the sea.
yes, jonathan was right. dawn hunting on the marshes is different, quite different.
