“I should think so,” replied Charlie, “according to what I saw you eat last evening.”
“Did either of you ever eat any sand-birds?”
“We never did.”
“You never tasted anything half so good as a sand-bird pie; I always calculate to have a real tuckout once a year on sand-birds. Mother takes the biggest dish in the house and bakes a smashing great pie.”
“Let’s go,” said John. “Where’s the place?”
“You know where Sandy Point is?”
“I hope so.”
“Well, right close to it, there’s a lot of little ledges; some of them ain’t bigger at high water than a table; some not so big; just a little speck in the water.”
“I know; I’ve been there many a time to shoot brants.”
“These sand-birds feed on the shore till they are chock brimful, and the tide comes and drives them off; then they fly on to these ledges; but they are as afraid of getting wet as a cat; and when the tide comes up around the rock, they huddle together to keep out of the water, till they are all in a bunch, and the rock looks blue with them; it’s the greatest chance for a shot; but,” continued he, after a pause, “perhaps Mrs. Rhines wouldn’t want the trouble of making it.”