So, on Easter Sunday, after big ham dinner at the in-laws, I sat down in a small grove of trees to call to a couple of big-bearded toms I had seen sulking through the neighbor's yard an hour earlier. Though I could see the birds, or one bird at least, strutting through the tall grass of the pasture, they ignored my lonely hen yelps, making not so much as a peep. Never one to be afraid of being too aggressive, I got on the diaphragm call with a quick series of yelps punctuated by some hard cutting. I was rewarded with a hard gobble and the sight of not one, not two, but four light-bulb white heads bobbing through the grass toward me. Within a few seconds I went from worst to first as two toms flapped death throes in the dust as the two others bugged out for the territories.