DUCK and GOOSE 
 
 Shooting 
 
Class r^R ^555 
 Book ." Q ^ \ A ^ 5 
 
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 COPnUGHT DEPOSm 
 
TALES OF DUCK AND 
 GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
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WILLIAM C. HAZELTON 
 
TALES OF DUCK AND 
 GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 s»Si.- 
 
 ^eing Duck. and. Goose Hunting Narratives 
 From Celebrated T)ucking Waters 
 
 JOHN B. THOMPSON 
 CLYDE B. TERRELL 
 HORATIO BIGELOW 
 JOHN F. PARKS 
 
 BY 
 
 THOMAS DIXON, JR. 
 JOSEPH S. RUGLAND 
 CHARLES F. COLE 
 DR. A. A. ALFORD 
 WILLIAM C. HA2ELTON 
 
 ROBERT L. MASON 
 GEORGE L. HOPPER 
 PERRY C. DARBY 
 DR. EDMUND W. WEIS 
 
 COMPILED AND PUBLISHED BY 
 
 WILLIAM C. HAZELTON 
 
 SPRINGFIELD, ILLINOIS 
 19 2 2 
 

 (^ 
 
 AUG 24 vSa 
 
s 
 
 DEDICATION 
 
 This Volume is 
 
 Respectfully Dedicated 
 
 To 
 
 CLYDE B. TERRELL 
 
 A True Sportsman and 
 A Devoted Friend 
 
SPECIAL PERMISSION HAS P.EEN CRANTED BY DOL'BLEDAY. PAGE & 
 
 CO. TO REPRINT FROM "tIIE LIFE WORTH LIVING," THE 
 
 NARRATIVE BY THOMAS DIXON, JR. 
 
 Copyright by W. C. Hazelton, 1922. 
 
 PRESS OF PHILLIPS BROS., SPRINGFIELD, ILL. 
 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Pleasures of Wildfowling 1 
 
 Jumping Ducks on Current River 5 
 
 Duck Hunting on Skis _ „ 10 
 
 Ducking on the Susquehanna Flats, Past and Present 14 
 
 A Duck Hunt on Big Lake, Arkansas 20 
 
 Duck Shooting on a Club-Foot Lake — Reelfoot 25 
 
 Goose Shooting on the Missouri River 31 
 
 "Old Rusty" and "The Outlaw" 36 
 
 After Canvasbacks at Storm Lake, Nebraska 40 
 
 A Lucky Half-Hour With the Bluewings 49 
 
 Bluebill Shooting From a Floating Blind on San Francisco Bay 52 
 
 Blind and Battery Shooting on Pamlico Sound 57 
 
 An Outing With the Grays in Manitoba 64 
 
 On Far-Famed Little River 75 
 
 Old Bob of Spesutia Island 81 
 
 California Goose Shooting in the Rice Fields 85 
 
 Reminiscences of "Ragged Islands" 92 
 
 In the Haunts of Wildfowl in Tidewater Virginia 97 
 
 Goose - Shooting Remembrances 108 
 
 After Bluewings, Upper Current River 115 
 
 Reminiscences of an Old Timer 125 
 
 The Chesapeake Bay Dog , 132 
 
 Wildfowl in a Storm on the Massachusetts Seacoast 136 
 
 Forty -Three Years 137 
 
Books on Wildf owling published by W. C. Hazelton : 
 1916, Duck Shooting and Hunting Sketches. 
 1919, Ducking Days. 
 
 1921, Wildfowling Tales. 
 
 1922, Tales of Duck and Goose Shooting. 
 Editions now exhausted of the first two volumes. 
 
 Chicago address, 407 ,Pontiac Bldg. 
 
THE PLEASURES OF WILDFOWLING 
 
 EDMUND W. WEIS, M. D. 
 
 CAN any scientist, biologist or philosopher explain the feel- 
 ing of anticipating rapture to a man when he hears or sees 
 something suggesting the possibility of hunting? Many 
 have tried but I have never found a satisfactory explanation. 
 Whether it is a relic of Barbarian ancestors to want to kill some- 
 thing, or of atavistic tendency of getting food, or the desire to 
 circumvent the wary, or possibly to exercise an acquired skill 
 with the gun, I do not know; but it must be something impera- 
 tive that will cause a man to give up the comforts of home, 
 brave possible dangers of sickness by exposure to inclement 
 weather, to brave dangers of accidental mutilation and death. 
 It will do all this and yet in spite of the most he can do, the 
 net results may be — as they frequently are — nil. Yet he has 
 had such an uplift of spirit, such ecstatic pleasure, that all other 
 means of sport dwindle to the vanishing point. Far be it from 
 me to attempt a reason, for as a matter of fact I have done all 
 and more of these things. It is impossible for me to say just 
 what motive possesses me. This, however, I do know, and that 
 is when the season comes on there is an indescribable longing 
 for a certain something that will only be satisfied by fondling 
 my gun and examining the ammunition box. Then come the 
 days of desire and the nights of dreaming. Has there ever 
 been a duck hunter who has not filled his bag, has made the 
 most beautiful and almost impossible shots, has gloated over 
 the fall of birds as they hovered over the decoys or swung past 
 
2 TAUES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 him on swift wing, who has not had almost as much pleasure 
 in anticipation as realization? Then the night after, how there 
 passes in review the incidents of the day, the missed shot, the 
 accident that caused the loss of the grand old greenhead, the 
 folding up of graceful wings, the splash of the fall, the chase of 
 the cripple, and the satisfaction of a clean kill at 50 yards ; all 
 of these are gone over and over until the keeper yells, "All up 
 for breakfast!" 
 
 Always Something More to Learn. 
 
 In all grades and kinds of duck shooting the knowledge neces- 
 sary of the birds' habits, the effect of the weather on their flight, 
 where they are feeding, the manner of building a "blind" and 
 setting out decoys, the best spot for a "blind," the shifting of a 
 "blind" when the wind shifts, the way to sit and keep still in a 
 "blind," the rule in shooting from "blinds," and hundreds of 
 other lesser and greater vital requirements make up what might 
 be called the scientific duck shooter's arbitrary book of rules. 
 
 Each year that the duck hunter goes out he will pick up some 
 new wrinkles from some grizzled old "pusher," or from some of 
 the canny boys that lie around the lakes. I have been at the 
 lakes when some seasoned old pirate would sit grumblingly 
 around the fire in early Spring, only deserting his warm place 
 to go outside and look at the sky, or spit on his finger and hold 
 it up to see which way the wind was blowing. Meanwhile the 
 not so hardened shooters would be working their heads off to 
 bring in a dozen ducks a day. Then some morning old Groucher 
 would be missing, and would come in at night loaded to the 
 stumbling point with ducks. He had been watching the "signs," 
 and when he got ready had poled and cut his way in to where 
 the birds were feeding and had made a "killing." That, of 
 course, was in the old days. Days when there was no "limit," 
 either to the birds or to the number vou could kill. 
 
THE PLEASURES OF WILDFOWLING 3 
 
 In my humble estimation, and it is not so humble either, being 
 based on forty-five years' experience behind the gun, there is 
 no sport to equal hunting the duck. My experience extends to 
 the Far West, North and South. 
 
 Lure cf the Fascinating Sport. 
 
 Who would not like to peer cautiously through the bushes at 
 a wood duck, a mallard, or, say, a green-wing drake swimming 
 there a boat length or two away? What hunter would not walk 
 far for such a sight? But such things come too far between to 
 explain our enthusiasm at mention of wild ducks. What sug- 
 gestiveness is conveyed when someone casually remarks that he 
 has seen a flock of ducks! What hundreds of scenes, what 
 thrills of excitement have gone to make up the witchery of that 
 term! What is there about that subtle quality of wildness in 
 these birds that it should lay such a powerful hold upon US'* 
 Why such music in the first approaching whistle of their wings? 
 Why such a knell as it grows faint again in the distance ? Mark ! 
 a flock! Are they coming? Going? Have they seen us? Will 
 they see us? Will they be bunched at this point? Will they 
 pass? How far away? 
 
 "Mark north !" Without moving a mviscle excepting those of 
 your eyes you follow the flight of a "bunch." The voice of the 
 cedar call, now followed by the live hens out in front, you warily 
 attempt to twist your neck around as they circle, one, two or 
 three times and then the supremest joy when they finally set 
 their wings and float down, as it were, their yellow legs out- 
 stretched, down, down to just over the decoys, you rise up, slip 
 your safety and — how you fondle him, admire the wet feathers, 
 pat his plump breast, admire the beautiful colors! The cup of 
 happiness is flowing over. The anticipated is realized, coupled 
 perhaps with a slight regret, that he can never give you that 
 exquisite moment again. 
 
4 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 Wherein lies greater satisfaction than a beautiful double — 
 perhaps you are in the blind in the midst of a snowstorm, the 
 peak of your cap is pulled down so that you cannot see well, 
 or some day when the flight has been poor you are slightly 
 dozing, you open your eyes and peer through the meshes in 
 the blind, you see a pair of strange birds swimming just on the 
 outer edges of the decoys. Involuntarily you stiffen, your hand 
 begins to reach toward the stock of your gun, and as you rise 
 the pair head for the sky. They are 35 or 40-45 yards away — 
 perhaps 50 — crack, crack — and you start and stare as if some 
 one had presented you with a fine jewel. 
 
 Again you are careless in your observation, when suddenly 
 like a streak there passes some teal. Without an instant's hesi- 
 tation, it is but a moment to raise the gun, slip the safety, put 
 it against your shoulder, throw the muzzle from three to eight 
 feet ahead, press the trigger and they are yours. 
 
 Again, and I will never forget this experience, a pair of mal- 
 lards came in. I made a clean kill with the first barrel and 
 missed with the second ; the drake began to climb straight into 
 the sky immediately over the blind ; I slipped in the shell, raised 
 the gun, struck a rotten limb above me, loosened a lot of punk- 
 wood which filled my eyes, rubbed them clear and then sighted 
 on him away up in the blue, when at the crack of the gun he 
 "let go all hold" and came tumbling down not 20 yards away. 
 
 There is no grander passion from which one can realize so 
 large a per cent of absolute pleasure, recreation and pride of 
 achievement as from that of duck or goose shooting. Then after 
 the season is over, you have put gun and paraphernalia away 
 and settle down to business, take it from me, you will be a 
 better man, more energetic in your work and do better in every 
 way from having had a good play. 
 
JUMPING DUCKS ON CURRENT RIVER 
 
 JOHN B. THOMPSON 
 
 <« T F you've never jump-shot ducks offen this river, you'ns 
 
 I hain't never had the best in duck shooting!" declared 
 
 -*- Jess, a tall, smiling, broadbacked product of the Ozarks, 
 
 who admitted with a carefree laugh that he had given more of 
 
 his time on the river, than he had to books and school. 
 
 So when I found myself one bright October day, behind a 
 little brush screen in the bow, under the guidance of Jess, I 
 began to appreciate that there were many ways in the duck- 
 hunting game that I had yet to learn. 
 
 The clear river runs like a "scairt dog," as Jess expresses it, 
 and only in the small pockets formed by the swirls to back- 
 water, or the long, hurrying reaches of flat, waveless shoal, are 
 ducks to be found. Truly the sky appeared to be banded with 
 them from east to wxst. They were not for my river, but for 
 the feeds of pinoak and smartweed among the submergings of 
 timber in the Rea Sea overflow of Black River. 
 
 We raced down a rapid, and then to our left a bunch of wood 
 ducks leaped from behind a willow-shielded bar, screaming 
 startled "hoo-eeks !" I sent the contents of my twenty at them, 
 positive that the two gaudily-attired drakes it covered would 
 fall. I was, however, easily spared this conceit, for not a feather 
 did I touch. The fast water had me guessing! With open 
 mouth I watched the children of the dark, damp woods wend 
 their way in hasty flight up stream. 
 
 "You sometimes miss !" jibed the boatman. 
 
 5 
 
6 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 "Sometimes, and then some," I added meekly. And then 1 
 agreed again to his comments on my poor marksmanship as a 
 pair of mallard drakes boiled out of a nearby moss bed, and 1 
 repeated the performance of missing. 
 
 Jess cackled. 
 
 It was such a cold-blooded, inexcusable miss that I could not 
 refrain from laughter. And right then, too, I realized I had to 
 change my mode of shooting, by making some allowance for the 
 fast water. 
 
 Ozark River of Surpassing Beauty. 
 
 Before me now was an expanse of wide, straight river of rare 
 beauty, and reflecting the saffrons, scarlets and drabs — the dress 
 of the environing hardwoods. To the west, receding from high 
 banks, small bars of gravel came to view. Here and there dark 
 moss beds and stalks of long, coarse grass appeared among them, 
 promising something in the way of a secreting place for wild- 
 fowl. A sound must have escaped us, or was it undue vigilance 
 on their part? From the end of the grassy plot on the last bar 
 a large flock of gadwalls flew down the river until they were 
 out of sight. Jess seemed to have hopes of their return, for 
 he pushed the boat into the nearest plot of grass with the com- 
 mand to keep down. 
 
 For a long while we awaited their return upstream, as is tlie 
 custom of their kind over restricted water areas. They failed us. 
 
 Tingling with impatience, Jess shot the boat midstream, where 
 I began to experiment. First I learned steady footing, when 
 str-uling upright, by ridding myself of unnecessary trepidation. 
 Then I studied what eflfect the vibration and the movement of 
 the boat had on proper alignment. On the speed of the river I 
 could set no rule ; it varied too much. 
 
 Into the suck of an extensive crescent-shaped rapid we fell 
 and floated on to a point above Mill Creek Bay. Far to the 
 east, and advancing our way rapidly, assuming distinctness with 
 
JUMPING DUCKS ON CURRENT RIVER 7 
 
 every second, iippeared a line of back dots. It approached us 
 with almost unbelievable swiftness. Then as it found outline 
 over the stream in the shape of a great flock of ducks, it forged 
 up it with almost inconceivable rapidity. And when we were 
 in the fastest water they swooped over us. To that instant the 
 bend of the river had concealed us. Now they saw us and 
 towered, placing dependence alone in the fieetness of their wings 
 to offset their momentary confusion. How those bluebills did 
 climb ! Somehow I whirled in their change of direction, fired 
 my gun and somehow dropped a pair of them on the silver 
 current. 
 
 Teal Frequent Gravel Bars. 
 
 Every now and then I jumped ducks, killing a few only, but 
 deriving more sport from my occasional kills than any I had 
 ever made. My ducks were not of the same kind. No two 
 flocks were alike. I would flush a flock of mallards, then gad- 
 walls, widgeons, an occasional redhead ; and what few of the 
 scaup family that came to my gun were not flushed on the 
 stream, but were invariably flight ducks dipping too near us. 
 
 Soon I gained some skill in the rapids, and the day ended 
 with a kill of fourteen ducks. All my shots happened in the 
 most boisterous water before attaining the foot of a rapid, 
 where the craft behaved unsteadily. All of the ducks imme- 
 diately hurtled upstream and seemed to have an almost uncanny, 
 gyrating method of twisting away from my shot. The element 
 of uncertainty, without which there is no sport, was not lacking. 
 Likely looking places where ducks should be found were without 
 them. Barren spots, as for instance smooth yellow gravel bars, 
 were the most frequented. Often the swift water carried us 
 into an innocent appearing bar, when a part of it suddenly de- 
 tached itself and lifted into flight. Teals were always jumped on 
 the bars, and many lazy but wise shoveller permitted close ap- 
 proach, but not quite within killing distance. 
 
8 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 When ducks fell on land back of us it required arduous poling 
 upstream to secure them; and, moreover, it exacted much racing 
 ability on Jess' part to keep up with a kill in the current. A 
 cripple afforded the most amusement, for it evoked much pro- 
 fanity from the boatman as well as an exhibition of skill in 
 handling a boat in very swift water. Once in a while the ducks 
 flocked in the open, seemingly enjoying our chase after them. 
 Paddling as fast as we could, they swam on in advance of us. 
 They were on the qui znve against surprise. 
 
 Wise Old Mallard Drake. 
 There was the sole drake mallard that I knocked down at a 
 great distance. He hit the water with a splash that alarmed 
 every minnow on the shoal within a hundred yards. The river 
 was wide at this point. Jess and I began our chase after him. 
 He went on down stream, and as we neared him I emptied my 
 gun at him. It had no effect. Just a little ways out of range, 
 I guess, but he gained the opposite bank. There was upstream 
 water there, and the wary old rascal took advantage of it. We 
 had to turn and follow. Our task was not such an easy one. I 
 tried shot after shot at the slowly moving object. Again I failed 
 to stop him. We had only one thing left to do, follow after 
 him. How the perspiration exuded from every pore ! The 
 rapid was a tough one. Finally we conquered it, feeling sure it 
 would end in the capture of our crippled drake. I looked in 
 advance, and after peering through the waves of white water saw 
 the drake take the east bank on us. I fired repeatedly at him. 
 He surely bore a charmed existence, for I swear that this time 
 he was within range. Downstream went that old greenhead in 
 water of a character that we usually avoided. He had set the 
 pace and there was nothing for us to do but to follow. When 
 we decided it was safe to neglect the boat we saw the rascal 
 slowing moving to the west bank. That gun of mine simply 
 could not touch him. It poured the No. 7 chilled shot right on 
 
JUMPING DUCKS ON CURRENT RIVER 9 
 
 him, it seertied, but without ruffling a feather. I was almost 
 exhausted and Jess in the same state. The duck performed his 
 same mode of keeping away from us so often, that I hardly 
 realized we were going over the same places. 
 
 Old Drake Makes for Tree Top. 
 
 "He's goin' for that old tree top," gasped Jess as the green- 
 head made a dive and disappeared in a very large semi-submerged 
 tree on the west bank. "You kin gamble that he's all in, or he'd 
 outswum us," he added. 
 
 In a few minutes we came to the top. The duck could not be 
 seen. Jess suddenly called my attention to the long mass of 
 hairy roots hanging in the water from the butt of the forest 
 monster. He pointed his finger down in the water. I fol- 
 lowed the direction with my eyes. I saw clinging far up the 
 butt just out of water the bill of the drake. Almost as soon as 
 I saw him Jess caught, him with his hand and gave him to me. 
 
 I examined the duck very carefully. I could see no wounds, 
 only a small red line behind his head as though he had been 
 seared with a single shot. Of this I apprised Jess. I remem- 
 bered immediately how gamely this fellow had behaved. 
 
 "Jess, we've had lots of sport today; this duck ins't hurt and 
 will live," I announced. 
 
 "Yes," drawled the Ozarker, "and I'm thinkin' we'll turn this 
 greenheaded sport loose for another day." 
 
 As vanishing day touched the clear water with an impress of 
 soft crimson tints, the drake swam with high head to the center 
 of the river. There we watched him until he faded in the scene. 
 A moment after two happy duck hunters pushed wearily up- 
 stream. 
 
DUCK HUNTING ON SKIS 
 
 CLYDE B. TERRELL 
 
 ONE pleasant summer evening a visitor from Chicago sat 
 on the porch of a Wisconsin farmhouse near Butte des 
 des Morts, swapping stories of duck-hunting experiences 
 with his friend, a farmer lad, who "since knee-high to a grass- 
 hopper," had spent his spare moments roaming about the famous 
 wild-duck marshes near his home. 
 
 "Did you ever hunt ducks on skis?" inquired the boy. 
 
 The visitor shook his head negatively, for this was a kind of 
 duck hunting that is practically unknown except in the vicinity 
 of the marshes adjoining Lakes Butte des Morts, Winneconne 
 and Poygan in Wisconsin. 
 
 "These marsh skis," continued the boy, with some surprise, 
 "are similar to the Norwegian skis, but they are a little wider, 
 and are made especially for walking on bogs, marshes and rice- 
 beds where it would be impossible to wade or push a boat. With 
 them a hunter may navigate such places and get those birds that 
 fall beyond scent and range of his good retriever, or on brisk 
 Autumn mornings enjoy some exciting 'jump shooting' out on 
 the marsh." 
 
 Skiing for ducks is to me the most exciting and adventurous 
 form of duck hunting; every moment is full of expectation that 
 a duck may jump out of the grass from almost any quarter: 
 then there are the thrills that one feels when crossing a hazardous 
 stretch of mud and water. The physical exercise is, to me, supe- 
 rior to that taught in any gymnasium. The fellow who does 
 
 10 
 
DUCK HUNTING ON SKIS 11 
 
 not enjoy physical exercise need not attempt marsh skiing. The 
 beginner should not over-exert himself, but if he will start out 
 on short skiing trips after ducks, and increase their length as 
 he becomes more able and accustomed to them, he will be physic- 
 ally benefited. Almost all forms of duck hunting are enjoyable 
 to me, but skiing for ducks has always appealed most to me ; 
 nerliaps because I am one of those restless sort of fellows that 
 like to be "on the move." I like the expectation and excitement, 
 and then the exercise of skiing keeps one comfortably warm on 
 cold days when the more patient fellows in blinds behind their 
 decoys are freezing. 
 
 Rare Sport in Itself. 
 
 Skiing is sport in itself; marsh skiing for ducks has the addi- 
 tional feature of one of the most fascinating forms of duck 
 hunting. Many exciting times I have had after ducks on skis, 
 but there is one hunt that seems to stand out from all the rest. 
 
 One raw November afternoon, Ray, my chum ; Nick, the black 
 cocker spaniel, and I arrived half-frozen at our hunting shantv 
 on the Butte des Morts marsh, but determined to bag a few mal- 
 lards. A heavy wind was blowing and as the waters out on 
 the lake became rougher and rougher the mallards came off the 
 lake in great flocks. It was too rough for them to ride the 
 waves. They would circle around over the bogs and wild-rice 
 fields to the north of us until, finally satisfying themselves that 
 the place concealed no enemies, they would drop down here and 
 there, usually beside one of the many small ponds scattered over 
 the marsh. 
 
 It being too late to go out that afternoon, we decided to ski 
 out there the next day. After a good hot supper, one of the 
 best ever, we rolled into our beds. In our dreams that night we 
 experienced all kinds of exciting experiences, made all manner 
 of difficult shots and had a grand shoot. 
 
12 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 Sport the Next Morning. 
 
 Next morning we were up early; filled up on pancakes with 
 maple syrup, bacon and coffee, and as the rising sun began 
 show its rosy face over the marsh we were out with our skis. 
 
 Scarcely out of the dooryard Nick's tail began to wag faster 
 and faster — up jumped a mallard almost under my feet. Up 
 went my gun, "Snap !" — no report. There were no shells in the 
 gun and of course by the time I got it loaded the mallard was 
 out of range. Ray was not close enough for a shot, but he had 
 the laugh on me, and I made up my mind that next time I would 
 have my gun loaded before I started. 
 
 We now started out into the marsh on our skis. Soon Nick 
 caught sight of another duck and we skied as fast as we could, 
 following him. Suddenly Nick made a jump on a bunch of 
 grass and after a moment he came slowly toward us with a 
 mallard in his mouth. It had crawled under the grass out of 
 the cold and could not get away quick enough. 
 
 A little farther on some mallards jumped from the edge of a 
 small pond near Ray, and as Ray shot, another jumped up almost 
 behind me. "Bang! bang!" I got him! I had passed within 
 a few feet of him and he had never stirred until he heard the 
 gun shot. And so it went and many other ducks met their fate. 
 
 When we were returning to the shanty, Nick ran across the 
 trail of another duck. I hurried up as fast as I could, leaving 
 Ray behind me, but in my haste I started to cross a little pond 
 on the thin ice. About half-way across the ice cracked, and 
 down I went in the water nearly but not quite over my hip boots. 
 
 "I'll be back after I get this duck," Ray shouted, as he hurriect 
 off after the dog. 
 
 It seemed a long time that he was after that duck, and mean- 
 while I was sinking into the mud and the water was coming 
 nearer and nearer the tops of my hip boots. At last he got back 
 and nearly split, laughing at my misfortune. He stopped laugh- 
 
DUCK HUNTING ON SKIS 13 
 
 ing long enough to push one of his skis out for me to step on 
 and I got out on to firm bog. If he had not arrived when he 
 did I would soon have had my boots filled with ice-cold water. 
 
 Heard a Yell From Companion. 
 
 Soon after I had a chance to laugh. I heard a yell behind 
 me from Ray. He was going across a stretch of ice and water 
 and had slipped and fallen flat in the water. 
 
 We hurried back to the house for dry clothes; and, besides, 
 the ducks in our hunting-coat pockets were getting heavy. On 
 counting up, we found that we had twenty-two fine mallards 
 that morning. 
 
 The visitor who had been listening to the tale now aroused 
 himself. 
 
 "How are these skis made?" he inquired. 
 
 "Come over to the shop and I'll show you a pair," said the boy. 
 
 They crossed the road to the workshop, where, leaning against 
 the wall, was a newly-finished pair of marsh skies. They were 
 about nine feet long and six inches wide, of seven-eighths inch 
 clear cedar and curved up at one end. A piece of heavy leather 
 about four inches wide was riveted across each ski a little in front 
 of the center, forming a pocket in which the toe of one's boot 
 could be loosely inserted. 
 
 "When you make this pair of marsh skis," advised the boy, 
 "be sure to get this pocket for your foot placed just far enough 
 ahead so that the rear end of your ski will drop down a bit 
 and when skiing you will not be running the tip of your ski 
 down into the mud. I consider cedar or butternut the best of 
 woods to make marsh skis from ; these woods are light and 
 strong, and do not warp and bend out of shape after you have 
 had them in the water." 
 
DUCKING ON THE SUSQUEHANNA 
 FLATS, PAST AND PRESENT 
 
 GEORGE L. HOPPER 
 
 THE Susquehanna ducking grounds, or the Susquehanna 
 River flats, are located within that grand old common- 
 wealth, the State of Maryland, extending from the east- 
 ern to the western shore of the Chesapeake Bay, ten miles in 
 width, thence from the mouth of the Susquehanna River, down 
 the bay, a distance of four or five miles. Through almost the 
 center of the flats, to Spesutia Island, a deep channel flows, of 
 sufficient depth to allow vessels drawing from eight to ten feet 
 of water to navigate, with the aid and assistance of tugs or other 
 steam craft. On both sides of the channel the flats extend to 
 both the western and eastern shores, subdivided here and there 
 by sloughs. The flats are plainly outlined and designated by the 
 dense growth of wild celery, which is covered, during normal 
 tides, with from four to eight feet of water. During an ex- 
 tremely dry summer, the water becomes slightly brackish. 
 
 The wild celery of the Susquehanna flats is one of the most 
 enticing of all the wild-duck foods in our Southern waters. It 
 is especially sought after by the canvasback, redhead and black- 
 head ducks. All the other varieties feed upon the wild celery. 
 more or less. Several of the smaller varieties are exceedingly 
 fond of it, but are not strong enough to make the deep dive and 
 pull it loose, root and branch. The ruddy and baldpate depend 
 largely upon what they can grab from the canvasbacks and red- 
 heads when they rise to the surface of the water. ]\Iallards and 
 black ducks are seldom, if ever, seen upon the flats, since they 
 
 14 
 
DUCKING ON THE SUSQUEHANNA FLATS 15 
 
 are not deep-water ducks. They prefer to remain almost entirely 
 in the marshlands. The Canada goose and the whistling swan, 
 in early days, were also found in great numbers upon the Sus- 
 quehanna flats. Since the passage of the Migratory Bird Law, 
 the return of the geese and swans have been especially noted by 
 observation of local and other sportsmen, more especially just 
 before the birds' annual flight to the breeding grounds of the 
 Northland. 
 
 Gathering of Waterfowl a Marvelous Sight. 
 
 It is a most wonderful and interesting sight to watch the move- 
 ments of the wildfowl just a few days before they start on their 
 northern journey. All the ducks of the South Atlantic Coast 
 seem to assemble there. The greatest confusion now prevails 
 among them. They congregate in many flocks, each flock cover- 
 ing several acres. Flock after flock will rise, circle and recircle 
 over the flats, returning almost to the very spot or spots from 
 which they had just arose. Many individuals and small squads 
 are continuously visiting the larger flocks, back and forth. They 
 are flying all day long. This continues until the weather condi- 
 tions are just right, and they know, as nobody else does; then 
 they all take wing, rising higher and higher each time they make 
 the circle over the flats; and every time they recircle, a large 
 flock breaks from the dense mass, heading north-northwest, with- 
 out any mariner's compass to guide them over a trackless route 
 to their far-away Northern breeding grounds. Sometimes they 
 leave at sunrise; sometimes at sundown. Many remain for a 
 few days after the first great flight. Then they will all be gone 
 excepting a few stragglers, and the poor cripples, who are obliged 
 to remain. Those remaining pair ofT, mate, and nest in the 
 marshlands.. 
 
 Soon after the sora rail bird shooting is over, and they have 
 taken that silent and mysterious flight to the Southland, the 
 little blue-wing teal then return to the estuaries and sloughs of 
 
16 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 the bay from the Northland. Later the Httle green-wing teal 
 arrives. The green and blue-wing teal make great sport during 
 the latter part of September and early October, just before the 
 open season upon the flats. The mallards and black ducks are 
 the next to arrive, and settle in their old haunts in the marsh- 
 lands. Not until "The frost is on the punkin' and the fodder's 
 in the shock" does the blackhead, baldpate and little ruddy or 
 greaser make their first appearance upon the flats. The redheads 
 are the next to return, but the canvasback and Canada goose do 
 not return in any great numbers until there is settled winter 
 weather in the Northwest. 
 
 The first authenticated record of the great number and variety 
 of the great number of duck who annually assemble upon the 
 headwaters of the Chesapeake Bay is recorded in a little personal 
 log-book of Captain John Smith's, who, according to our early 
 history, was the first white man to navigate the bay and Susque- 
 hanna River, the river being navigable for a distance of only 
 about four and half miles. 
 
 Remarkable That Any Survive. 
 
 When we consider how accessible the Susquehanna flats and 
 ducking grounds are to the most densely populated section of 
 this country, so that sportsmen living as far north as Boston 
 may leave their homes and business at 9 o'clock in the morning, 
 and reach the Susquehanna River in time to make all necessary 
 preparations for the next day's shooting upon those flats ; when 
 we more fully realize what a continuous annual slaughter of 
 those ducks have been taking place ever since the first settlers, it 
 is a wonder there is a single duck remaining to return to those 
 winter feeding grounds. 
 
 Not only have these ducking grounds been accessible to all 
 the sportsmen of the East, but sportsmen from all parts of the 
 world have made passing visits to those ducking grounds for a 
 day's shoot. 
 
DUCKING ON THE SUSQUEHANNA FLATS 17 
 
 Commission merchants in the past have purchased and shipped 
 thousands of the wildfowl. Queen Victoria during her lifetime 
 had a standing offer for so many pairs of canvasbacks and 
 redheads to be annually delivered in England. King Edward 
 and King George continued the order. 
 
 More than a hundred bush-whack or sneak-boats, and seventy- 
 five single and double sink-boxes were licensed by the county 
 authorities bordering on the headwarters of the bay the past 
 season. Under the most unfavorable conditions in years, more 
 than five thousand ducks were killed on November 4, the first 
 day of the present open season. 
 
 Every method, fair and foul, has been devised to decoy and 
 capture the ducks upon these feeding grounds. The tolling 
 Chesapeake retriever, shooting over baited grounds, shooting 
 from blinds, bush-whack or sneak-boats, and sink -boxes — all of 
 which have been legitimate according to the local laws ; while the 
 market hunters in the past have resorted to every foul and un- 
 lawful device, the swivel gun and gill net at night being the 
 most unsportsmanlike. They skilfully set a gill net at some 
 favorite feeding place, during the night, in such a way that the 
 ducks' heads become entangled when in the act of diving for 
 the roots of the wild celery, and thev are drowned by hundreds. 
 Selecting a calm, cloudy night, a proper time for such depreda- 
 tions, with a swivel gun (big gun) charged with a quarter of 
 pound of powder (black) and a pound of shot, they fairly 
 slaughter the ducks while feeding. Ducks can be heard feeding 
 on such a night a considerable distance. It sounds like the rip- 
 pling of a small stream. Lying flat upon his stomach in the 
 bottom of his shallow boat, constructed for the purpose, with 
 two short paddles, the gunner cautiously approaches the unsus- 
 pecting ducks until within a few yards. Then he knocks the 
 side of his boat with a paddle, pulling the trigger with the other 
 hand as the ducks are making their first spring into the air. crip- 
 pling as many as he kills. 
 
18 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 In our boyhood days tolling with the Chesapeake dog was our 
 greatest fun and pleasure. The cunning sagaciousness of the 
 dog, to say nothing of his companionship and that of some little 
 nigger like my boy Limber Jim, gave a zest to the sport we can 
 never experience again. We were true children of nature then, 
 and, the only time of our lives, true democrats. We walked 
 side by side, and sat side by side upon the same rocks and logs ; 
 bit off a "chaw" of tobacco from the same plug, spitting its bitter 
 sweetness upon the sands of the shore ; hiding behind a rock or 
 old log, while in ecstasy we nudged each other with our elbows 
 as Old Bob, Wave or Major were successfully tolling the ducks 
 within easy range. 
 
 The Sink-Box An Expensive Luxury. 
 
 The sink-box and its equipment is undoubtedly the most ex- 
 pensive "layout" which a duck hunter can possess, requiring 
 from three to five hundred decoys, and a crew of three men to 
 man the yacht and look-out boat. Shooting from a sink-box, 
 over so many decoys, is the most magnificent and exhilarating 
 of all such sport. A good shot from a sink-box, like old Captain 
 Bill Dobson, the greatest shot from a sink-box that ever lived, 
 can do wonderful execution. His name became a household 
 word, by reason of his mysterious and successful methods of de- 
 coying ducks. He never possessed such a thing as an artificial 
 duck call; lying flat on his back within the sink-box, projecting 
 his hands just above the upper edge and manipulating them in 
 such a manner, he would imitate so perfectly a duck flapping its 
 wings as it rises from the water, it would often attract a flock 
 of ducks, while in flight, though far out of range. 
 
 I have sat upon the deck of a gunning yacht, under the most 
 favorable conditions, observing a flock of canvasbacks or red- 
 heads which were flying so far to the eastward or westward of 
 his decoys it seemed impossible for him to turn them by the 
 
DUCKING ON THE SUSQUEHANNA FLATS 19 
 
 simple movements of his hands. They would often pass hir. 
 decoys far to the windward, then luff by making a long turn, 
 swing towards his decoys against the wind, darting within easy 
 range. Not until they had turned and drew within hearing, did 
 he begin talking to them, by chattering like a female duck, when 
 it is feeding contentedly in some safe and secluded place. He 
 always had three guns, one on each side of the box, and one in 
 his lap. He could operate and discharge three muzzle-loaded 
 guns successfully upon a darting flock, killing the last ducks well 
 within bounds. With his old muzzle-loaded guns, he has been 
 known to bag nearly 500 canvasbacks and redheads in a day's 
 shoot. On one occasion I saw a flock of eleven canvasbacks 
 dart to his decoys, and not one came out. He did it with five 
 shots. 
 
 Rear Admiral Robley D. Evans, our own "Fighting Bob," in 
 his lifetime frequently visited the Susquehanna ducking grounds 
 during the open season. He always engaged Captain George 
 Mitchell, lighthouse keeper of the Battery Island lighthouse, 
 which is located almost in the center of these shooting grounds. 
 Turning to Captain Mitchell on one occasion, after making a 
 clean right and left from the double sink-box, he exclaimed : 
 "By the gods, Mitchell ! I would rather do this than be president 
 of the United States !" 
 
 Shooting from blinds, tolling and shooting from the bush- 
 whack boats were the only methods in vogue in the early days. 
 The market hunter was not so much in evidence. What ducks 
 were killed from blinds and boats were consumed locally. 
 
 Old contracts of those days, between the old slave owners of 
 that section, can still be seen on file at the Harford county court- 
 house, where they are often shown to visitors. The contracts 
 usually stipulate, after the usual preamble, "My negroes shall 
 not be fed upon wild ducks more than three times a week," etc. 
 How interesting that must sound to these old club epicureans of 
 this day and times! 
 
A DUCK HUNT ON BIG LAKE, ARKANSAS 
 
 JOHN B. THOMPSON 
 
 THERE was a summer warmth clinging to the Sunken 
 Lands. Insects droned, and garrulous little straw-green 
 marsh frogs, that conformed in coloration to the fall- 
 stricken flag and saw grass, held sway continuously. Hunting 
 coats were uncomfortable until the wind shifted and brought a 
 cooling message from the northwest. The gradual termination 
 of Little River into Big Lake and its scatters had an aspect con- 
 spicuously weird, yet not devoid of a beauty peculiarly its own, 
 with the dead foliage of gums, cottonwood and cypress enhanc- 
 ing it.. There was smething about the immensity of the inunda- 
 tion, and the ghastly nakedness of water-killed timber in places, 
 that for a while my attention was lured from sport. 
 
 The overflow, where I first entered, reminded me of a restless 
 sea, where the great meadows of flag, coarse moss and tall 
 smartweed gave a play of resistance against the slightest breeze. 
 
 The ways of the duck boat were legion. The native knew 
 when to interpret the slightest parting of the flag as a passage- 
 way for the shallow-draft light craft with his long slender 
 paddle. The face of my guide was emotionless, except for a 
 smile that bordered on contempt as I acknowledged my confusion 
 over his selection of routes to the ducking grounds. A dull 
 light brown was his face — the swamp taint, it was — like the 
 falling hickory leaves, and of so simple an expression it was 
 almost sinister. His long, tapering fingers showed the wrinkles 
 and whiteness which constant contact with water will give, but 
 they exhibited none of the callousness which is the consequence 
 of hard labor. 
 
 20 
 
A DUCK HUNT ON BIG LAKE, ARKANSAS 21 
 
 The Market Hunter at Work. 
 
 Gunfire could be heard in all directions. Suddenly it dawned 
 on me that I would rather watch the hunter than shoot ducks. 
 To Bill, my guide, I imparted this, and in response he grunted 
 acquiescence, and then laid on more laboriously with the paddle. 
 
 After a moment the duck boat glided into an opening. I 
 could see sets of live decoys, perfectly trained fellows without 
 the inhibitive cord and anchor, feeding within fifteen yards or 
 more of the flag blinds. A flock of mallards appeared above 
 the banding tree tops, then falling into the enticing lay of the 
 skilled native caller, they set for a pitch near the first blind. 
 Only then I saw the hunter, as the staccato of his pump gun 
 drew my eyes there. Some ducks fell. I saw him nonchalantly 
 push his boat to the kill, and aware that the boat could contain 
 but few more ducks, he picked up the dead ducks, left the decoys 
 there, and proceeded to a dock, where w^e followed him. 
 
 So in the path of the market hunter we went. Bill calling to 
 him now and then in a bantering way. And then we struck a 
 pathway in the flag, which ended at a duck buyers' dock. On it 
 was heaped a mountain of ducks. More ducks than I had ever 
 seen piled together in all my life ! The hundred and fifteen, 
 which the market hunter disposed of at 25 cents each to the 
 buyer from the East, seemed but an insignificant number in 
 comparison. 
 
 None commented on the pile of dead ducks. I withheld 
 speech. The market hunter returned to his boat, and with a 
 new supply of shells paddled back to the scene of his former 
 activities. 
 
 One Type of Sportsman. 
 
 Bill pushed me on until I tired of the repetitions of the per- 
 formance. I intrusted to my guide that I wanted to see the 
 sportsman shooting, and he led me to him. His performance 
 
22 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 was about the same, not quite so deadly, but he shone as though 
 he were obsessed with but one motive, and that to kill as many 
 ducks as he could. On that day the only difference I could dis- 
 tinguish between the market hunter and the man with the self- 
 imposed title of sportsman was, the former limited himself to a 
 variety of ducks, and the latter limited himself to neither varie- 
 ties nor numbers. 
 
 All day long we followed in the lair of ducks, and for the 
 life of me amidst the big continuous flight of ducks and the 
 noise of the shoot I could stir up no desire to kill. Duck boat 
 after duck boat we passed, each laden to the water topheavy 
 with its burden of dead ducks. One hunter had a sense of grim 
 humor about him — possibly without his being aware of it — for 
 on top of his load of dead strutted upright a number of live 
 decoys vociferously proclaiming their share in the accomplish- 
 ment. 
 
 Once in a while I tried to interview a market hunter. The 
 majority of them were sullen, and responded nothings in forced 
 monotones. One or more laughed, when Bill advised them that 
 I had come to shoot and would not shoot. One tapped his head 
 with a gory finger, as significant of my mental unsoundness. 
 Another shrilled back reproachfully: "Club Man?" 
 
 Just then I thought I would enjoy a pass. It might be sport 
 there, when at another kind of a ducking ground it is often con- 
 sidered the reverse. Still I decided on it. Bill mentioned a 
 pass, and we went to it. It was too late in the day, hoM^ever, 
 and the ducks were now back in the woods on their feeds. 
 Would I like to see a feed? Sure, nothing would please me 
 more ! My guide knew of one, a round pond back in the timber 
 which was skirted with a profuseness of smartweed. Thither 
 we went, creeping with excessive caution. Now and then a 
 noise escaped us as our little craft grated crisply against tb.e 
 drv rushes. 
 
A DUCK HUNT ON BIG LAKE, ARKANSAS 23 
 
 Ducks On the Feed. 
 
 We were on the feed before the ducks were aware of our 
 presence. I looked out into the pond as Bill pointed to it with 
 his fingers. He might as well have spared himself of the effort. 
 The noise of mallards was indescribable. As for numbers they 
 were beyond count or estimate. The way they were flattened out 
 they resembled an immense army of restless turtles more than 
 anything else I could think of. Apparently there was not room 
 for more, still each second additional ducks were pouring in on 
 the feed, and jamming a way for their repast.. In a moment a 
 mallard hen and three green-headed attendants swam almost to 
 the side of the boat. They were so started at our invasion for 
 the nonce they were without signs of flight. 
 
 It was I who made the mistake. I reached out my hand to 
 touch one, then they jumped out of the water, the hen quacking 
 her reverberating alarm call. And then I used the twenty-guage 
 once, dropping one drake. The entire swamp was on wing, and 
 the colored animation so resplendent amidst the sodden environ- 
 ments departed. Immediately I regretted my rash act, for 
 once more from the blinds on the lake I heard the murderous 
 reports of the magazine guns ! 
 
 Dusk was approaching. Bands of wildfowl passed the stark 
 timber in moving miniature silhouettes bathing in the red and 
 gold lights, the parting benison of the setting sun. The flight of 
 squawking, ungainly, sluggish green herons seemed endless. 
 From the east came the noise of the discharge of many guns. 
 We paddled with all our might to a great flag opening, just as 
 the sun surrendered its light-giving office to a big yellow moon, 
 that magnified the trees into outrageous proportions. 
 
24 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 Burning of the Roost. 
 
 Thousands of ducks were circling at the roosts, but the death- 
 dealing gunners were there to keep them away. We came to the 
 first roost while a sky line of weak vermilion was yet visible. I 
 could see the gunners. You can be sure they were not market 
 gunners, but sportsmen from the metropolis across the Big 
 River. They saw me and invited me to join in the slaughter. 
 Yes, five of them ! Their guns flashed so rapidly I could not 
 begin to count the time between shots. I saw flock after flock 
 circle and dip, and then rise into the moonlight with many miss- 
 ing. Right then I could not have killed a duck, if it had meant 
 that it was my last shot on earth at ducks. It was too much 
 for one day, even for an old hunter like myself. It was all so 
 appalling it sickened ! 
 
 On arrival at my debarking place the assembled natives com- 
 mented on my lack of success — an unbelievable occurrence on 
 Big Lake when a flight was on — and Bill looked quite long at 
 my sole mallard. But Bill made no remark. As I shook his 
 hand it had a warmer feeling and tenser clasp than when I first 
 met him ; and when the parting salutation was muttered, I was 
 positive I beheld a new glint from his eye. Was Bill seeing 
 mv view of the subiect? 
 
DUCK SHOOTING ON A CLUB-FOOT 
 LAKE— REELFOOT 
 
 ROBERT LINDSAY MASON 
 
 UPON our approach to Reelfoot Lake we could see great 
 blankets of ducks spreading themselves across the sky, 
 shutting out the light and filling the air with the roar of 
 their myriad wings. Many of the flocks were headed for the 
 lowlands of the Mississippi, but others were dropping into the 
 Great Stopping Place between the Great Lakes and the gulf, our 
 volcanic lake. Who knows but that the Keeper and Preserver 
 of all game did not wrinkle up this little place upon the face of 
 Nature in order to create a half-way resting place for His 
 feathered children ? 
 
 Up to the present time, duck shooting on Reelfoot has been 
 attendant with risk — not for the ducks so much as for the 
 shooters. Certain lawless elements have commanded this region 
 so long that unless a "sport" possesses the open sesame to the 
 exclusive order of the P. C. — Pusher's Conference — of Hotel 
 Samberg. it is an even draw as to whether he ought to venture 
 upon these shores. 
 
 Jim Commons, Fatty Brooks, Slim Griffith, and sundry other 
 pushers less famous, may punctuate the morning air with revolver 
 shots which mean : "Get up, you lazy sports if you expect to 
 get ducks today!" or the signal may shout: "Lookout boys! 
 New sport on the lake. May be a revenuer !" Or a particularly 
 rapid staccato may scream : "Game warden !" 
 
 25 
 
26 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 Claude, Jim and I did not fear the familiar perils of this 
 watery wilderness for we were already initiated. And, too, we 
 recognized the fact that if it were not for the pusher's patent 
 oar which enables him to pull facing the bow, we might now be 
 resting at the bottom of the lake, strangled in the submarine 
 forest of trapanatans or the twisted roots of cypress. 
 
 Reelfoot a Volcanic Lake. 
 
 In the year 1812 Nature coughed, gulped mightily and a 
 slew-footed lake sixty square miles in extent was born in the 
 twinkling of an eye where nothing had been but peaceful land- 
 scape in the northwestern corner of Tennessee. The basin thus 
 created was not filled with the muddy water of the Mississippi, 
 for its waters are crystal. 
 
 The P. C. decided that the forming of the lake caused the 
 earthquake ! We shooters could not dispute it. We could not 
 swear that the lake, entire, had not existed before — sub-terra — 
 and that by mixing its own waters with the subterranean fire 
 had not belched itself bodily from the bowels of the earth. Na- 
 ture has an effective way of getting rid of her unpleasant in'ards 
 very quickly, just as Claude does when he eats too much of Mrs. 
 Smith's delightful cooking — which is nearly ever time we go 
 there. 
 
 At any rate, this weird stretch of water is a vast cemetery of 
 trees. Everywhere their stumps and ragged skeletons stand 
 stark monuments of a primeval forest. Some protrude from the 
 depths like the sunken masts of a lost armada ; others like the 
 peaceful spiles of Venice ; still other veterans like the banished 
 admirals of an inland navy. The owls and heavy-winged 
 "water-buzzards" have never left it, for here they find riotous 
 subsistence upon the teeming fish. So do the furtive fishermen, 
 not yet quite sure of their rights, though in times past they have 
 fought — even murdered — for them in the face of crooked legis- 
 lation. 
 
DUCK SHOOTING ON A CLUB-FOOT LAKE 27 
 
 Use Live Decoys. 
 
 Our progressive pushers — Fatty and Jim — use live, trained de- 
 coys — "Dicks and Susies." These little feathered, intelligent 
 friends trod familiarly over our legs with their pink, web feet, 
 chattering with much joyous anticipation of the hunt as they 
 clambered into our boats. Our guides had turned them out of 
 their pens before daylight to "limber up." They are rarely ever 
 fed; only when hunting is dull. We hunters had eaten gener- 
 ously of Mrs. Smith's baked croppy fish, roast duck, fried coot, 
 hot rolls, etc. Duck and man seemed ready for the fray. 
 
 Sam Applewhite's motor, after doing stunts over submerged 
 log and snag, chugged us out beyond the pale of film ice and 
 within reach of the sport. 
 
 As we churned along Fatty offered the remark "the crop" on 
 the lake had been poor this year, owing to the high water. 
 
 "Crop of what?" inquired Claude. 
 
 "Umbrellas," Fatty answered laconically, and considered the 
 matter closed. 
 
 "Today's a good day for umbrellas, I'll admit," still persisted 
 Claude ironically as he dodged the drip from his pusher's sou- 
 wester, "but I don't see any growin' around here nearabouts." 
 
 "There!" jerked Fatty, pointing straight downward toward 
 the surface of the water. 
 
 "Umbrella plant!" yelled Fatty. "Nuts! Nuts! Ducks feed 
 on 'em." 
 
 "Umph! Oh!" grunted Claude, and subsided calmly. 
 
 We soon ensconsed ourselves in the curious blinds of Rat 
 Island ; the waist-high hollow stumps among the curiously dis- 
 torted boles and roots of the clumps of water cypress. 
 
 Then Sam cut loose and waved a goodby as his exhaust faded 
 to windward. 
 
28 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 Decoys Turned Out. 
 
 Our excited Dicks and Susies were soon turned loose to feed. 
 There were onl}- a few coots in sight. Fatty possessed one 
 those inimitable duck calls for which Reelfoot is famous and 
 when his industrious decoys did not tune up with the proper 
 duck chatter Fatty soliloquized in wild celery talk and umbrella 
 nut conversation. 
 
 Very soon, with the help of our "pitching" Dicks and Susies, 
 he pulled them down right out of the sky. Here they come ! 
 Our chilled veins and limbs were suddenly warmed with action. 
 As the birds breasted against the wind to settle, we raised from 
 our tree-clumps and let them have it. 
 
 Our decoys kept a comical eye heavenward and dodged our kill 
 as it splashed into the half frozen waters of the lake. Down 
 we went again. More nutty talk by Fatty, and here they came. 
 Up we went like Jacks in boxes. Down came our feathered 
 shower, the lifeless bodies often skidding for many feet across 
 the firmer ice from the momentum of the fliers. We shot until 
 our guns were too hot to hold comfortably, then we had lunch. 
 
 Unfortunately, that afternoon a great raft of coots a mile long 
 settled off to our right ; as a result the new ducks arriving began 
 swerving off to their feeding grounds, though decoyed by us. 
 This continued until we were compelled to bring in our faithful 
 decoys and depart for Cane Island. Although we shot among 
 the coots frequently we could not disperse them. After our 
 second round at Cane Island we reached our limit. There was 
 a furtive exchange of glances in which temptation was written. 
 
 "Well!" said Fatty, "we'll be going!" That settled it. It is 
 an inviolable rule of the P. C. never to exceed the limit nor to 
 shoot on the grounds before sunrise or after sunset. \Ye obeyed 
 the mandate by paddling our way homeward. 
 
DUCK SHOOTING ON A CLUB-FOOT LAKE 29 
 
 Next Day's Sport. 
 
 The next morning we were upon the water early. The ice 
 was so thick it had to- be broken in the "blow-holes" to allow 
 the staking of the decoys. Presently Dicks and Susies were work- 
 ing bravely. Up came great clouds of redheads, mallards, teals, 
 and a few canvasbacks. We let them have it at close range. 
 After desultory shooting we were compelled to decamp to Goose 
 Basin on account of the changing wind. We did not go for 
 geese, however, for these fair creatures did not deign to descend 
 from "The Flying Wedge — The Aerial Goose Limited." They 
 skimmed by a mile high like a whizzing arrow winging south- 
 ward. Our duck chatter was small peas to them, and besides, 
 they were due at the Everglades, Florida, by dark. What at- 
 tractions did a Reelfoot puddle, full of sharp stakes, have for 
 them when they could feed in the sea? 
 
 Fatty chattered some more cunning duck talk while we bat- 
 tered them from the reeds. Our boatload of game at close of 
 day spoke eloquently of our success. 
 
 Outcast Duck Joins Party. 
 
 As we turned to leave our lagoon at sundown we heard an 
 isolated quack. A lost "Dick" was quacking desolately in a 
 lonesome pool. Jim counted his Dicks and Susies. "No, they 
 are all here," he said. Turning to look again, we saw a lost 
 decoy paddling vigorously for our boat. He clambered in with- 
 out an invitation and seemed to be glad to be once more with 
 those of his kind. His stay with us was very brief, however. 
 The welcome he received from his feathered brethren was not 
 to his taste, so he put over the gunwale and dived into the 
 depths of Reelfoot. 
 
 "Go, you son-of-a-gun !" yelled Fatty. "Ye hain't nothin' but 
 a derned tramp nohow !" 
 
 He never came up. 
 
30 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 He had evidently been guilty of some infraction of the laws 
 of Dicks and Susies. 
 
 He may be now feeding on rich umbrella nut and wild celery 
 in duck heaven or perhaps he went to a hotter place reserved 
 for feathered Judases who betray their kind. If an unkind fate 
 destroyed him, he had no family or kind to bemoan his departure, 
 for, by trade a "Judas," it is safe to say — could they reason — 
 all of his wild friends would be glad of his sudden demise in 
 whatever tragic manner. 
 
 We did not stop to inquire but threaded our way back to a 
 good hot supper and a more hospitable welcome then he received 
 from his kind. 
 
 As we returned our guide glanced sidewise up at the moon 
 and said: "Boys, we ain't goin' to git no ducks termorrer!" 
 And we didn't. According to the usual protective instincts of 
 all wild things, the wild ducks of Reelfoot Lake will feed upon 
 the wild celery and the rich trapanatans at night if the moon is 
 shining and will rest in the daytime. During this period Mr. 
 Hunter will look in vain for the sign of a wing. He may find 
 the spectacled coot standing idly about in the shallows and look- 
 ing wise, but that's all. The ducks are rafted out on the lake 
 and on the Mississippi. 
 
 The Reelfoot Lake basin at twilight, when the screechowls are 
 quavering out their lost-soul dirges in the gathering gloom, is 
 one of the most desolate places on earth. Above us the scud- 
 ding clouds hid the face of the moon and arched in flying columns 
 that eerie graveyard of tree-snags and owls. 
 
 As we looked back into that queer volcanic graveyard, that 
 city of the dead trees, we hoped that this great Stopping Place 
 for the birds, made in a moment's thought by the Creator, might 
 not prove a shut-in sepulchre for the migratory fowl, the move- 
 ments of which are the strangest phenomena of all the clock-like 
 automaton of Nature. Good sportsmen will not make it so. 
 
GOOSE SHOOTING ON THE MISSOURI 
 RIVER 
 
 PERRY C. DARBY 
 
 ON the subject of goose shooting, I am not posing as one 
 who knows it all, but am giving you my experience as 
 best I can, and of my friends who have put in a lifetime 
 goose hunting on this famous old stream. 
 
 I was born and raised in southw^estern Iowa, Page County, 
 and this and adjoining counties are the garden spot of Iowa. 
 Some of the finest lands in the state lie here. 
 
 If any of you who read this think anyone can go out and 
 make big kills of geese any day when they are flying, you have 
 another guess coming. I invite you to come and try conclusions 
 with the geese and I will wager you come out second best eight 
 times out of ten. Some days they will work good and other 
 days they will not come in at all. Sometimes you will make a 
 good kill and sure think you have found the secret of success. 
 The very next day you can try the same methods and can't 
 get one single bird. They will not notice your decoys .at all. 
 Then you jump up, go out and look at your blind from all 
 angles. You can't see anything wrong. Still they won't come 
 in. Then you feel as though you never did know how to hunt 
 geese,. 
 
 Canada Goose a Grand Game Bird. 
 
 The Canada goose is a bird of many moods. At times very 
 wise, but at other times very foolish. I admire all our game 
 birds, but the grand old Canada is my favorite, and when you 
 kill one you can console yourself with the thought that you are 
 
 31 
 
32 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 looking at the grandest, gamiest bird that flies. They surely 
 are the hardy fellows and will stand lots of cold as long as they 
 can get plenty of feed. They dislike to leave the corn-fields 
 and they like to pull up the young Fall wheat. 
 
 The Old Missouri River. 
 
 The Missouri River, with its ever-changing current and many 
 sand bars, has been the natural habitat of the wildfowl long be- 
 fore man ever saw it and will continue to be so as long as there 
 are any left to make the journey both in the Fall and Spring. 
 The geese especially use this waterway, and the Fall is when 
 we always have had the best shooting. They commence to arrive 
 here in October and stay until the river freezes over and the 
 feed is covered with snow. The Hutchins geese arrive first, then 
 come the speckled bellies, white fronts, blue goose, snow (or 
 white goose), and the Canadas, the grandest bird of all, arrive 
 about the first of November. Then is when goose hunting is at 
 its best. 
 
 November arrives and the heart of the goose hunter is glad. 
 The boys on the river call me and say that the flight is on. The 
 big fellows are coming on the sand bars to roost. That is what 
 I have been waiting to hear. I am a boy again, work is put to 
 one side, and my mind wanders back a few years when as a 
 boy I stood on the hill back of our house and watched the long 
 lines of geese pass on tireless wings. How fascinating it was 
 to me ! I wondered if I ever would be large enough to g'l 
 hunting! T love the call of the quail, the boom-boom of the 
 prairie chicken, the quack-quack of the mallard, the whistle of 
 the widgeon or sprigtail, but the sweetest music to me is the 
 sonorous Ah honk ! Ah honk ! of the Canada goose. 
 
 We arrive at the river with our giuis. shells, decoys and dogs. 
 The bo}s tell me they have been using the big bar over in the 
 bend, which has more than three thousand acres in it and river 
 
GOOSE SHOOTING ON THE MISSOURI RIVER 33 
 
 channel running on both sides. Half of it is bare; only drift 
 and large logs on it. The other half is grown over with young 
 willows. The geese are using the open bar. 
 
 Geese Leave to Feed. 
 
 It is now about 9 o'clock in the morning and all the geese 
 have left the bar for feed, going to the wheat and corn-fields. 
 We row our boat across the channel, pull it up out of sight along 
 some high bank or up into the willows, and go and look the bar 
 over to find where they have been roosting. We find plenty of 
 signs on a good open place. Two of us dig a pit not more than 
 three feet deep and just large enough to sit in comfortably; 
 when we stoop over we nearly fill the hole, so if they come in 
 high and circle over us they won't see anything to scare them. 
 They are suspicious and everything has to look perfectly natural 
 to them. 
 
 We put out our decoys about fifteen yards from our pit, set- 
 ting the profiles in V^-shape facing the wind ; that is so they can 
 see them from any direction. We are now ready to put out our 
 live decoys, four or five tame Canadas. We have halters for 
 them ; tie them as you would a horse. They soon become used 
 to it. We get into the pit. It is almost noon, and how hungry 
 we are ! We proceed to devour our lunch and watch for the 
 geese, whom we know will soon be returning. 
 
 We have not long to wait. We see approaching at a distance 
 a big flock of more than a hundred Canadas and drawing nearer 
 and nearer to us. They cross the channel over the Missouri. 
 How your heart beats and your breath comes a little quicker as 
 you hear that Honk ! Ah Honk ! Honk ! as the old gander dis- 
 covers your decoys on his roosting place. Our geese commence 
 to call and and he answers. Look ! They are setting their wings 
 and getting lower, coming straight for your decoys. You don't 
 dare move, and scarcely breathe. They are getting closer and 
 
3-4 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 closer. They are about twenty yards high and almost over the 
 decoys. Our gander is talking to them. They think all is well 
 and have no fear at all. They are putting down their black 
 feet to alight. Such a sight ! I cannot describe it ! You would 
 have to be there to realize what it means to have those big fel- 
 lows right on you and you grasping your automatic until it 
 seems that your fingers will crush the stock. It even makes 
 the veteran's heart beat a little faster against his bosom. The 
 suspense is something awful, but the time for action hos arrived. 
 We arise and the whole air seems filled with geese. Our nerves 
 are steady now and the guns are doing their deadly work. It 
 is soon over and six big fellows lie on the sand dead. One is 
 going down a hundred yards away. We make a run to get him., 
 and try to capture him alive. We won't kill him unless we 
 have to as he is only wing-broken and we want to tame him 
 and turn him out with our flock on the farm. They soon become 
 very tame. He was captured after some running and dodging. 
 It is not the easiest thing in the world to capture a winged goose. 
 We gather up the dead and return to our pit. 
 
 Flock Passes Us By. 
 
 The next flock pass us by and seeing the boys' decoys down 
 at the other end of the bar commence to circle and get lower. 
 I say to my partner : ''They are going to give the other boys 
 a shot." Sure enough, they sail in and leave four of their num- 
 ber behind lying on the sand. We wait a while longer and bag 
 a few from some small flocks. It is after 4 o'clock and the flight 
 is over for the afternoon. We pull up our decoys and return 
 across the channel to our camp, well pleased with our day's sport. 
 
 Driving tiie Canada Goose. 
 
 Next morning we are up early and discover a flock of about 
 two hundred resting in one place. Vic declares he can drive 
 them over some of us. We cross the channel, keeping out of 
 
GOOSE SHOOTING ON THE MISSOURI RIVER 35 
 
 their sight. Bailey, Al and myself scatter out in different places 
 where we think they will cross, secreting ourselves behind a 
 high bank or drift. Vic goes away around and coming up as 
 close as he can to them, shoots to scare them. Up they get and 
 go straight for Al, who is behind a high bank. They are climb- 
 ing higher and higher all the time. He killed three with heav\ 
 loads of No. 2 shot. 
 
 Tolling Old Wawa. 
 
 While we are admiring his kill there is a big flock come in 
 and alight at the upper end of the bar. Vic has a little spaniel, 
 small in size, but he sure understands the goose-hunting game. 
 We all secret ourselves in some drifts. Vic takes Sammy in his 
 arms and shows him the geese and tells him to fetch them. He 
 sights them and away he goes almost to them. They jump into 
 the air, but keep low and circle around him. He capers around 
 and works toward us all the time, the geese flying over him and 
 not paying any attention to anything but the dog. He entices 
 them close enough to shoot and three guns account for eleven 
 of them. Not so bad for one little dog. 
 
 Now I have tried to describe some of our successful hunts, 
 but don't think that we always have this kind of luck for we 
 don't always succeed. 
 
 The sand blows and drifts when there is any wind. It is so 
 fine it gets into the action of your gun and sometimes you cannot 
 work a repeater or automatic at all. Just as you think you will 
 make the biggest kill your gun refuses to work. You get one 
 shot and the geese are flying away and you are working to ex- 
 tract the empty shell. Can you think of anything more exasper- 
 ating to a hunter? 
 
 Some of the best chances we have get away, but I hope the 
 day will never come when I cannot make my annual trip to have 
 a trv at the sfeese. 
 
'OLD RUSTY" AND "THE OUTLAW" 
 
 ROSS KINER 
 
 IT was in the old days— long before factory-loaded shells were 
 common in the coimtry stores — that Nate bought her. Nate 
 ran a hardware store in the little Illinois town — a sleepy 
 inland village, perched turtle-wise on the edge of the Green 
 River lowlands. 
 
 Many's the night I've sat upon a nail keg, big-eyed beside my 
 Grandpa, and watched the old-timers come in after shells; the 
 old ten-gauge ten-pound hammer boys they were. "Nate ! 
 Gim'me fifty shells loaded with 3's." Out would come the fifty- 
 hole loading block from its place beneath the counter. In would 
 go the empty cases; then, with funnel and powder-scoop, the 
 five drams of "Eagle Ducking" and the ounce of No. 3 shot (if 
 in sky-scraping pintail time) found their respective places; 
 while, as^ a bass obligate to the soft tenor Zzzz ! of the powder 
 the harsh staccato rattle of the shot, came the Thud-thud-thud— 
 thud! of the mallet on the rammer as Nate forced the black 
 edges home. 
 
 Advent of "Old Rusty." 
 
 It was the heart of those days that Nate bought Old Rusty. 
 Far from being old and rusty was she when Nate unpacked her, 
 fitted stock and barrels together and snapped the fore-end home. 
 As racy a ten-gauge, thirty-inch Damascus barrels, hammer 
 Parker as one could wish, and many were the complimentary 
 remarks, such as, "She comes up just right," "I'll bet she's a 
 
 36 
 
"OLD RUSTY" AND "THE OUTLAW" 37 
 
 shooter," etc., etc., and many were the covetous glances I — a 
 barefoot boy — bestowed upon her as she stood new and shining 
 in her spick and span factory dress on the gun-rack near the 
 window. 
 
 The Days of Pigeon Shooting. 
 
 Those were the da3's when pigeon shooting was much in vogue 
 — the days when a man facing the traps with a twelve-gauge 
 was laughed at and told to take his pop-gun to the woods and 
 shoot the little sparrows. Old Rusty bore out the prophecies of 
 her many admirers. A shooter she certainly was. If a friend 
 of Nate's missed a bird or two with his own gun and Nate was 
 on the ground (as he almost invariably was), he was asked for 
 the loan of Old Rusty, and if again he missed, no word of con- 
 demnation was uttered — no villification of the gun ; they knev/ 
 full well that anywhere within and up to a range of sixty yards 
 Old Rusty, if held aright, was deadly. 
 
 I have told you a little of Old Rusty's advent. Of the gun's 
 subsequent life I can tell you little ; but I distinctly remember the 
 last time I heard her voice reverberate along the river marsh— the 
 time when she wiped out a cherished hope of mine. It w^as dur- 
 ing the interval between Nate's disposal of the gun and the last 
 time I heard her hollow-throated boom-oom ! that all the old 
 duck hunters knew — that she acquired the title of Old Rusty. 
 Going from hand to hand, sometimes for cash, more often in 
 trade — rebored and restocked — she soon became Old Rusty in 
 truth, but she still could slam the 6's as in the days of her polished 
 youth. 
 
 Camping on the River. 
 
 Bill King and I had been camped on the river since Monday 
 and the luck had gone against us. It was in March, sultry and 
 
38 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 warm — much more like May weather than the March of other 
 years. Oh ! how we wished for a norther to drive the spring 
 flight back. Our wish was gratified with interest. Saturday 
 morning when I awoke I found an inch of snow upon my blankets 
 — snow that had sifted through the chinks in the weather-beaten 
 shanty; while outside the north wind screamed and howled, tore 
 through the scrub willows and beat with icy breath upon the 
 river's breast. 
 
 "Bill! Oh Bill!" I yells. "Git up! It's snowing like the deuce. 
 Hike out ! We'll nail that gander today." 
 
 "The Outlaw." 
 
 "The Outlaw," as the boys called him, was a lone Canadian 
 gander — a giant of his race that had haunted the river bottoms 
 all the preceding Fall and Winter, and, so far, no one had been 
 able to get lead into him— although several of the boys had once 
 in a while taken a crack at him with their rifles, but at extremely 
 long range as he sat alone on some snow-covered field. 
 
 Perhaps a mile down-river Hi was camped. A sweeter, gentler 
 spirit and a truer sportsman never lived than Hi — he was a 
 born musician and a crack shot. Hi had that Spring obtained 
 Old Rusty in exchange for a Winchester pump. A born musician 
 I said — why the old time I ever was really homesick for the ok! 
 town was, when home on a visit, I sat one evening in his barber 
 shop, listening to some of the old waltzes that he played for me 
 on his favorite violin. Hi is "asleep" now (May he rest in 
 peace!) and the heart of me is saddened with the memory of 
 him. 
 
 A March Day With the Ducks. 
 
 All that day and until about 4 o'clock Bill and I cut pintail, 
 mallard and bluewing out of the scurrying flocks as they drove 
 hither and thither — blinded by the fast falling snow, confused by 
 
"OLD RUSTY" AND "THE OUTLAW" 39 
 
 the changing wind. About 4 o'clock it cleared away and had 
 stopped snowing, except for an occasional flurry that would form 
 a blue-black cloud against the western sky — miniature snow- 
 squalls that would screech and hustle past; then all would be 
 clear again. 
 
 The flight had almost ceased and Bill had come over to my 
 blind — a natural one. I had simply dropped down in the thick 
 marsh grass at the mouth of the bayou, kicked around a trifle, 
 and shot from there — anything answered that day with such a 
 storm raging. We were crouched side by side, shivering — de- 
 bating whether we had better stay a while or head for camp but 
 all the time keeping a close watch in case another bunch should 
 come in sight, when Bill, who was facing west, dropped like a 
 shot. 
 
 "Down !" between set teeth he hissed. I did not need the 
 warning ; the movement was sufficient. Squirming carefully 
 around, I soon was facing west beside Bill. 
 
 "The Outlaw !" Bill whispered, and sure enough, perhaps a 
 mile down-river and a good seventy yards above the marsh, with 
 steady sweep of powerful wings, straight toward us came that 
 gander — etched against the burnished copper of that- March sun- 
 set and ever drawing nearer. 
 
 Fumbling with cold-stififened fingers for some shells of BB's, 
 we waited — tense with expectation. Of a sudden as we watched 
 — peering Indian-like between the blades of dead slough grass 
 — the Outlaw crumpled. A spurt of fleecy smoke — boo-oom ! — 
 and as the report reached us I could have sworn I heard the 
 thump ! as that gander crashed stone dead upon the half-cut 
 meadow. 
 
 "Come on," growled Bill, staggering stiffly to his feet, "let's 
 hike for camp. Hi and Old Rusty have beat us out !" 
 
AFTER CANVASBACKS AT STORM LAKE, 
 NEBRASKA 
 
 JOHN F, PARKS 
 
 WHEN I was leaving the house one morning in earh 
 October to go to my ofifice, my Chesapeake Bay dog, 
 Rex, danced and cavorted around me. 
 "Why, what's the matter with you of late, old partner! You. 
 too, seem to be feeling something in this crisp, October air. 
 This has been troubling me, a little, here lately. It must be 
 that the 'pinfeatheritis' in in the air again. Come to think of 
 it, is about the time of the year to expect this disease again, and 
 I reckon we've got it." 
 
 Of course we had "it." "It" was in evidence everywhere. 
 See how the leaves have turned from the customary green to 
 the beautifiil multi-colored shades of red and brown, mutely 
 testifying to the recent ravages of "Old Jack Frost" ! Look at 
 the blue grass on the lawn, which but a few days previous was 
 a beautiful emerald, but which now, alas ! is lifeless and the 
 color of old Rexie's coat. Can't you feel that indefinable some- 
 thing in the air that seems to give the average duck hunter of 
 the red-blooded type (and the real ones are all of that type) 
 a feeling of exhibaration. and makes him tingle from head to 
 foot. Some call this ozone, but at this season of the year, I am 
 going to call it "duck-zone," and that was just wdiat was the 
 matter with myself and old Rexie. We had the annual con- 
 tagion, now known as "pinfeatheritis." taken from the air, and 
 the only specific for such a malady is a duck hunt in the "Sand 
 Hills," or some other equally good place. 
 
 40 
 
AFTER CANVASBACKS AT STORM LAKE 41 
 
 But, shucks, this is no new disease, so why elaborate on it? 
 Every red-blooded duck hunter in the country gets it every Fall, 
 but he perhaps never knew what it was before. 'Fess up, old 
 comrade of the marsh and stream, you know you get it right 
 along as the seasons roll by, so just remember when it hits you 
 again, it is "pinfeatheritis," and proceed to get it out of your 
 system at once with your annual duck hunt. It might also be in 
 order for me to add at this point, that you will not only get the 
 hankering for the sport out of your system, but the purging 
 process will carry with it a lot of other things that you have 
 been accumulating in your anatomy and you will return to your 
 duties looking the world and its perplexities in the face with a 
 clear, steady eye, a cool brain and the necessary nerves to do 
 the things that God has willed for you to do on this mundane 
 sphere and a heart and a will that will be simply irresistible. 
 "Now, just be a good boy and stay in the yard, old partner, a 
 little while longer, as I am expecting a message from Harry 
 almost any day now, telling me that the canvasbacks are in, and 
 then, hurrah for another session with the grandest duck that 
 a hunter ever pulled a trigger on." This again addressed to 
 Rex. Do you think he understood me? Well, I don't know 
 whether he did or not, but there seemed to come a gleam of 
 understanding in his beautiful hazel eyes that indicated to me 
 that he was wise to the occasion, and as further evidence that 
 we were thinking in unison, he quietly went up on the front 
 porch, laid down on the foot-rug, and in looking back as I turned 
 the corner of the street, I saw that he still had his eyes glued 
 en my retreating form, indicating that he was still thinking. 
 Yes, Brother Sportsman, the old Chesapeake knew that the time 
 had at last rolled around for our annual duck hunt. 
 
 Well, I was expecting the message, and I got it. It read : 
 "The canvasbacks are in. Meet me at Angora on the 15th." 
 Calling up my shooting companion. Bill, to get everything ready 
 for the evening train, we were on our way that night at 6 o'clock 
 
42 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 for one of the most enjoyable and successful duck hunts in all 
 my long- years of hunting ducks in the country known as the 
 "Sand Hills" of Northwestern Nebraska. 
 
 Harry met us according to appointment with his complete 
 outfit of camping paraphernalia, and a shooting friend of his, 
 whom we will call for this occasion, Mack. 
 
 The party arrived at Angora in a miserable driving rain-storm, 
 wet to the skin, so we remained at this little hamlet that night 
 and struck out for Storm Lake the next morning, distant about 
 25 miles. 
 
 Harry had with him one of his young English setters and his 
 Chesapeake Bay dog, "Sea Wolf," and Mack brought along his 
 Chesapeake Bay dog, "Bill," which, with my dog "Rex," gave 
 the party a fine outfit of retrievers, a very necessary adjunnct 
 to a successful duck hunt, especially if you are after the elusive 
 canvasback. 
 
 On the road over to Storm Lake there are a number of what 
 would be called fine duck lakes in any country other than the 
 Sand Hills, so we stopped over night at Camp Lake and had a 
 very nice evening and morning shoot on mallards, teal, widgeon 
 and gadwalls, also including a few redheads. 
 
 Arriving at Storm Lake the following afternoon we ran onto 
 a party of shooters from Sidney, Nebraska, who were just in the 
 act of breaking camp to return home. 
 
 The report these gentlemen gave us was encouraging, to .say 
 the least. The afternoon before and a day or two preceding 
 that, they informed us that the five in the party had bagged sixty - 
 four of the royal celery eaters, and proceeded to "show" us 
 Missourians that they were not giving us "hot air" on the sub- 
 ject, by producing the birds. 
 
 We found a good camping site on the north shore of this 
 lake and proceeded to get everything ready for an indefinite 
 stay. Storm Lake is a very large body of alkali water, divided 
 
AFTER CANVASBACKS AT STORM LAKE 4:J 
 
 in about two equal parts by a sand ridge about a quarter of a 
 mile wide, with large bodies of rushes, wild rice and celery beds 
 in spots throughout both bodies ; in fact, there are practically 
 three lakes in this chain, one of them being formed by a promon- 
 tory jutting out, which divides the west half of the main lake. 
 Under these circumstances, pass shooting is the real thing at 
 this lake and with pits dug in the banks at convenient places, 
 one can shoot to his heart's content at any time the flight is on. 
 
 While we had taken a goodly supply of decoys along, with 
 the natural advantages for pass shooting, we decided not to use 
 the decoys only as an incident to the general system of shooting, 
 so we all proceeded that afternoon to occupy the most favorable 
 of the pit locations and try to get onto the natural flyway of 
 the birds. 
 
 In going out to the blinds that night, large bodies of canvas- 
 backs and redheads could be seen out in the middle of both 
 the large lakes, together with nearly every other species of ducks 
 sporting themselves in and around the rushes nearer shore. 
 We were soon in our respective pits with the Chesapeakes nest- 
 ling anxiously and nervously at our feet, when down wind 
 skimmed a large flock of green-wing teal headed for the blind 
 occupied by "Bill," when of a sudden the entire flock seemed to 
 start straight up in the air as they neared "Bill's" blind, but they 
 were not quick enough and two of the little fellows took a header 
 for the ground. At the report from Bill's gun practically every 
 duck on the lakes arose and began to "mill," as we call it out 
 in this cattle country, the canvasbacks and redheads describing 
 a gradually wider circle, at the same time rising higher in the 
 air. When finally the old leader of one of the bunches probably 
 figured that he had the proper elevation to go over the danger 
 points, out of range, headed for Harry's blind. Well, old Mr. 
 Leader has another guess coming concerning elevations. He 
 left two of his family behind as a result. 
 
44 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 After this, and until sundown, the flight proved to be inter- 
 mittent, with mallards, teal, widgeon and gadwall predominat- 
 ing. Occasionally a flock of canvasbacks or redheads wc-«ld 
 come along, but the main flight of canvasbacks evidently had not 
 arrived as yet. so we went back to camp, very well satisfied with 
 the results of the evening shoot. 
 
 Warm Weather Arrives. 
 
 The next day it turned quite warm, but remained cloudy and 
 looked like rain, but unfortunately it did not rain, and it was 
 still warmer the next day and for several days following, which 
 made shooting out of the question. About the only thing wc 
 could do was to wait for more favorable weather conditions and 
 enjoy ourselves as only duck hunters can around a camp. 
 
 After we had been in camp a few days it was discovered that 
 at least three of our party could sing a little and if waterfowl 
 have any instincts for real genuine harmony, they must have 
 enjoyed a season of unusual high-class musical entertainment, 
 with the sweet strains of popular and classical music that floated 
 across the water to them every night. 
 
 While lying around camp during the warm days we had plenty 
 of time to think and plan on what we would do when the flight 
 actually commenced. Mack, the hard worker of the party, found 
 an old punt down on the lake and proceeded to rig it up for 
 service, and amused himself by paddling around the lake, chas- 
 ing flocks of mudhens, getting an occasional shot at a str^iy 
 canvasback or redhead. 
 
 Great Northern Flight of Canvasback Appears. 
 
 All things must come to an end in time, the good as well as 
 the bad, so one night the wind shifted to the northwest, blowing 
 like the very Old Harry. When we got up in the morning the 
 
Clyde B. Terrell and a Pair of Skis. 
 Photo by Courtesy of Clyde B. Terrell. 
 
o 
 
Eugene Terrell After a Day's Sport on Skis at Lake 
 Butte des Morts, Wisconsin. 
 
My First Goose. Photo by Clyde B. Terrell. 
 
AFTER CANVASBACKS AT STORM LAKE 45 
 
 elements were spitting a little snow and the sky line was dotted 
 as far as the eye could see with flock after flock of canvasbacks 
 and redheads. If' you have never witnessed one of these northern 
 flights of canvasbacks, Brother Sportsmen, you have certainly 
 missed something. Just imagine, seeing line after line of these 
 grand birds flying high up in the air in V-shaped formations, 
 going at the rate of a hundred miles an hour, and when they 
 have passed and repassed the lake several times, they come back 
 for the last time to alight, how they will seem to just let all 
 "holts" go and fairly rain down on the bosom of the lake — as 
 though some one had discharged a large-bored gun into their 
 midst, killing the whole bunch. If you can imagine this, yon 
 will have some conception of what the flight looks like. 
 
 Well, the flight is in now for a certainty and we must get 
 busy. To insure better results we decided to use only two of 
 the pits on the promontory, with two men in each pit. These 
 pits were located about 150 yards apart and we put out our 
 entire battery of decoys between the two pits. 
 
 At about 4 o'clock that afternoon we were all snugly ensconsed 
 in the pits and ready for business. We had not been located 
 very long when suddenly a huge cloud of smoke shoots up from 
 the south end of East Lake, probably from the muzzle of some 
 rancher's ten-bore soft-coal burner, followed by a long-drawn- 
 b-o-o-m, and the first hand in the game had been dealt. Now 
 look out ! 
 
 See them swirl ! The canvasbacks and redheads, as is their 
 custom, fly in a gradually rising circle, while the other species 
 of ducks fly in every direction. Presently the old leader of one 
 of the canvasback flocks decided that he had reached the proper 
 elevation to safely top the danger points and they straighten out 
 and head for our lake. They see the decoys as they come over 
 the high sand dune separating the two lakes and come like chain 
 lightning, but if the old leader felt safe when he left the lake, 
 
46 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 he makes the mistake of lowering his cokimbiad as he tops the 
 sand dune, with the result that when they got to us, they are not 
 over forty yards high. Bang! bang! bang! bang! rings out 
 from the two pits as they come in range, then more bangs as 
 they have passed us. The Chesapeakes get busy and soon a nice 
 bunch of the noble birds lay in the bottom of each pit, a feast 
 for the eyes of the gods. 
 
 This experience is repeated probably two or three times during 
 the rest of the afternoon, with an occasional shot at other species 
 of ducks to keep our hands in practice, but we have come for 
 canvasbacks and they are the main issue in the campaign. 
 
 The Chesapeakes Hunting the Cripples. 
 
 After the flight is over, to my mind, the real fun begins. Mak- 
 ing the Chesapeakes get the cripples. Did you ever try to run 
 down a canvasback or redhead with a boat? Yes? Well, you 
 probably found out that it couldn't be done. My experience 
 warrants me in the statement that it is trying to perform the 
 impossible. So we start the Chesapeakes after the cripples, who 
 have made themselves scarce during the bombardment, but they 
 are somewhere on the lake, and it is the mission of Mr. Chesa- 
 peake to find them. They do. Here comes an old drake out 
 of the rushes on the south end of the lake with two of the dogs 
 in hot pursuit. The duck makes a bee-line for the other side of 
 the lake and he is "some swimmer," too, let me tell you, for the 
 dogs do not seem to gain on him in the least. The duck sees 
 that he cannot expect to make the other side and get over the 
 strip of land dividing the lakes, so he starts to swim in a circle. 
 This is just what the Chesapeakes want him to do. While one 
 of them follows him, the other one takes a short-cut tack which 
 gets him closer to the bird. Then the other dog repeats this 
 operation until they are nearly on the duck, but Mr. Duck has 
 
AFTER CANVASBACKS AT STORM LAKE 47 
 
 no idea of giving up the ghost yet. This makes the dog look 
 foolish, but just for an instant, for the dog dives too, but fails 
 to get the duck, which comes to the surface about twenty yards 
 to the left. They go after him again and he dives once more 
 with about the same result. The duck is now getting tired and 
 after two or three more dives one of the dogs is close enough 
 to grab him after he goes under for the last time and the first 
 live canvasback is retrieved. 
 
 This experience is repeated until the lake is practically cleared 
 of crippled ducks, when we gather up our bunch and go back to 
 camp. Yes, Brother Sportsmen, by all means gather in the 
 cripples. This is not only one of the most enjoyable features 
 in connection with a successful duck hunt, but it is also the 
 humane way to look at it. As I view it, it is nothing short of a 
 crime to cripple ducks and let them get away to slowly starve 
 to death and furnish food for the mink, skunk, and other depre- 
 dators. Should you care to take my advice in the matter of a 
 retriever, there is but one real duck retriever in the world today 
 and that one is the thoroughbred Chesapeake Bay dog. A dog 
 that can be depended upon to get a crippled duck under any 
 condition of weather or environment. He knows no such thing 
 as fear. He will brave the coldest water — break ice if necessary 
 to get his bird — and when he does get it, if he is your dog, you 
 will surely get that particular bird and no one else will get it 
 without putting up a scrap of the first magnitude. So I sa}, 
 retrieve your crippled ducks by all means, and I have found in 
 my long experience in duck hunting that the best and surest 
 means of getting them is with the trained Chesapeake Bay dog, 
 ,For instance, we kept track of the cripples that we got down on 
 this hunt and the total loss was not to exceed three per cent, 
 which is practically nil. 
 
48 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 We spent three or four days longer at this lake after the flight 
 of canvasbacks began, but our experiences were about the same 
 as the first day, being varied more or less as to actual detail. In 
 returning by way of the lakes on the way back to the station, 
 we had some of the best shooting of the trip. And for expert 
 retrieving, we enjoyed some work that the dogs did that we do 
 not think can ever be surpassed. 
 
 To summarize and in conclusion, it was my good fortune to 
 again spend about two weeks in company with three loyal kin- 
 dred spirits whose every thought and action had for its object 
 my personal comfort and pleasure, and the memor}- of which 
 will linger with me until these old eyes of mine are too dim to 
 see the length of my gun barrels and the old machinery of my 
 physical being fails to respond to the spirit within — then and 
 not till then will the memory fade. 
 
A LUCKY HALF HOUR WITH THE 
 BLUEWINGS 
 
 WILLIAM C. HAZELTON 
 
 BLUE WING teal are first of the migratory ducks to be on 
 the move south in the Fall and the last to return north in 
 the Spring. The bluewing teal is a splendid little bird 
 but one rarely has opportunity to shoot them over decoys as 
 they do not remain in Northern latitudes after the weather gets 
 severe. I have not hunted them in the South. In the North I 
 have at times seen them in such large flocks they resembled huge 
 swarms of bees. 
 
 The incident I am about to relate occurred just before our 
 present bag limit was in force in Illinois. 
 
 One beautiful day in our grandest month, October, I was 
 rowing up the Des Plaines River a short distance above its 
 mouth and on the lookout for some bluewings. A stretch of 
 the river here for several miles is a favorite resort of the little 
 beauties. There are here little coves and bayous bordered with 
 rushes and there are numerous pond-lilies, water-cress and other 
 aquatic plants growing along its borders. There are also little 
 ponds at various points not far from the river and these ponds 
 are a favorite resort of these dainty little birds. 
 
 Coming around a bend in the river I was within gunshot of 
 a small flock of bluewings before they had seen me or I had 
 seen them. As they arose from the water I seized my gun and 
 killed one with the first barrel and two with the second. 
 
 At the report of the gun a large flock of bluewings flew out 
 from the opposite shore some distance above me and alighted in 
 
 49 
 
50 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 the middle of the river. There was at least fifty or sixty in the 
 flock. 
 
 They did not seem to be greatly alarmed and I quietly worked 
 my boat into shore out of their sight and gradually dropped 
 along close to shore down stream and around the bend. Here 
 I could row without their seeing me so long as I did not go out 
 into the river any distance. They had quieted down and swum 
 into shore and were apparently undisturbed and had evidently 
 no thoughts of their enemy, man. If I could get a shot into that 
 flock I would surely get some birds, for bluewing teal fly closer 
 together than almost any of our ducks. 
 
 I dropped down the river about a quarter of a mile and was 
 then able to cross over to the same side of the river where the 
 ducks were but was nearly a half mile from them and out of 
 their sight on account of the bend in the river. Rowing into 
 shore, I slipped some shells into the pockets of my hunting coat, 
 and drew the boat up on the bank safely. I had marked about 
 where the flock was located by trees on the opposite bank, the 
 banks being heavily wooded on this portion of the Des Plaines. 
 
 Making a Stalk on Bluewings. 
 
 Going back into the woods a sufficient distance I made a detour 
 of about a quarter of a mile and came out again cautiously 
 toward the river. 
 
 Sure enough, there they were directly opposite me and I had 
 judged it about right. Being careful not to tread on any dry 
 sticks to alarm them, I gradually worked within about thirty- 
 five yards of them, as near as I could estimate the distance. It 
 is against my principles to take pot shots, and I rarely shoot a 
 bird on the water, but the flock was so closely bunched together 
 I could not resist shooting the first barrel at them on the water. 
 I fired a shot at where they seemed to be gathered the thickest. 
 
A LUCKY HALF-HOUR WITH THE BLUEWINGS 51 
 
 and as the air appeared to be full of ducks at the report, I fired 
 my second barrel into the midst of the bunch. There were 
 seven or eight of the httle beauties as a result lying on the sur- 
 face of the water and giving a few last spasmodic flutters of 
 their wings and kicking their feet. The balance of the flock 
 flew on up the river out of sight. 
 
 Being in no hurry to retrieve them, as my boat was down 
 stream and they would float towards it anyway, I reloaded my 
 gun and stood on the river bank a few moments. 
 
 Another Flock Swiftly Appears. 
 
 Glancing up the river, all at once I saw a flash of blue and 
 white wings approaching me swiftly. A flock of teal were com- 
 ing down the river at top speed and they were not apparently 
 the same flock I had just fired at. I dropped down out of sight 
 and they swung right in over the ducks lying on the water but 
 did not seem to have any intention of stopping. They were 
 within easy range, however, and I hastily got in both barrels 
 in two cross-firing shots as they whizzed by me. There was a 
 succession of splashes as a number of birds fell dead into the 
 river near the others. 
 
 I reloaded again and was about to start down to get my boat 
 when a third flock appeared around the bend coming down the 
 river and, my dead ducks perhaps acting somewhat as decoys, 
 they swung in over them and I had two more shots at fairly 
 close range. 
 
 When I came up with my boat to pick the ducks up and 
 counted them I found that I had, including the three previously 
 killed, thirty-two bluewing teal, all killed in less than a half 
 hour, and no cripples. 
 
 Feeling somewhat guilty and thinking I had depopulated the 
 duck family enough for one day, I moved out into the stream 
 and started down the river for home, ten miles away. 
 
BLUEBILL SHOOTING FROM A FLOATING 
 BLIND ON SAN FRANCISCO BAY 
 
 JOSEPH S. RUGLAND 
 
 AT various loccations on San Francisco Bay, at low tide, 
 large areas of "flats" are bared, and to these feeding 
 grounds the bluebill move, always making some sort of 
 a morning and evening flight. 
 
 Located in the midst of these flats and out of gunshot of each 
 other, brush blinds, both of the stationary and "floater" type are 
 built and all shooting done over wooden decoys. The stationary 
 blinds referred to are built of lumber thirty feet in length, these 
 sticks being driven into the mud and sand about four to six feet 
 deep, with five sticks on each side and plenty of room between 
 for a duck boat. The sticks are then well braced to stand rough 
 weather, care being taken also not to offer too much resistance 
 to the tide. A platform sufficient in size to accommodate two 
 or three hunters is built high and dry above high water and it is 
 from this stand that the shooting is done. 
 
 While shooting from a stationary blind affords a most com- 
 fortable means of duck hunting, it has to its disadvantage the 
 fall of the tide, on such occasions the hunters being high above 
 the decoys ; also it is necessary to make difficult and dangerous 
 climbs from the duck boat to the platform above. For these 
 reasons, and others, I prefer the "floater" type of duck blind. 
 
 Always on the level with the water, the shooter soon becomes 
 accustomed to the frequent bobbing and jumping of his float. 
 
 52 
 
BLUEBILL SHOOTING FROM A FLOATING BLIND 53 
 
 and it is on rare occasions that a shot is missed that can be 
 traced to this cause. Of course, there are various types of these 
 "floaters" used ; in all cases, however, some sort of a solid float- 
 ing foundation is laid and the blind built upon same, including 
 a small "house" for shelter in rainy weather. The duck boat is 
 pulled up on the float and hidden from sight. 
 
 Large Flock of Decoys Gives Best Results. 
 
 Shooting on a broad expanse of bay water requires quite a 
 few decoys to pull the ducks, from thirty to fifty being usually 
 used. These decoys are invariably set in a V-shaped line, about 
 twenty yards from the blind, and in a straight row. You will 
 see from this arrangement that the decoys will appear as a large 
 flock to ducks swinging in on either side and to an incoming 
 bird as a flock of ducks feeding. Dried palm leaves are used to 
 disguise the blind, appearing as a small island to birds approcli- 
 ing from any direction. 
 
 It is Avith a feeling of pleasure that I recall numerous duck 
 hunts this season from my floating blind anchored in the bay. 
 
 A dark day, with plenty of rain and a stiff southeast wind 
 sweeping the bay is certain to make the bluebill leave the open 
 water and seek the shelter of the bay shores, and the hunters 
 lucky enough to be out on such a day are sure of wonderful 
 sport. 
 
 I recall, recently, just such a day, when thousands of bluebill 
 and canvasback ducks were moving. With my partner, I set out 
 fifty bluebill and canvasback decoys before daylight in the manner 
 previously described. We were in the blind and ready at dawn 
 but must observe the Federal Law regarding migratory birds, 
 so we contented ourselves until sunrise watching large flocks of 
 bluebill making for open water. Over our heads, and hundreds 
 of them within gunshot, flew flock after flock of ducks, disturbed 
 
54 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 in their early morning feeding by hunters leaving for tlieir re- 
 spective blinds. Occasionally reminded of our purpose of being 
 out so early in the morning by a bluebill or two alighting among 
 the decoys, somehow or other the time passed and with a last 
 look at our watches we agree it is time to shoot. 
 
 Bluebills Now Begin to Move. 
 
 We have not long to wait. The wind steadily increased in 
 velocity, and the ducks not wishing to ride the rough water in 
 discomfort commenced to return, seeking sheltered spots to 
 await the ebb of the tide. 
 
 A flock of bluebill circled about and came up into the wind 
 and with wings outstretched attempted to alight among the de- 
 coys. Of course, we were ready and three of the beauties were 
 left behind. It is no small matter to retrieve dead ducks on such 
 days, as the wind and waves carry them along in speedy fashion 
 and when picked up and placed in a boat the combined efforts of 
 two hunters are necessary to row the duck boat when returning 
 to the blind against the weather. Numerous trips after dead 
 ducks, however, add to the excitement of the sport. 
 
 High in the air, fighting their way against the wind, a flock 
 of bluebill, twenty or more, were flying southward. I whispered 
 to my partner to remain still and with the duck-call gave two 
 long flutter-like calls of the bluebill. But to no avail, it at first 
 seemed. Another call seemed to reach them, for the leader be- 
 gan swerving downward at amazing speed, followed by the other 
 ducks, with dips and circles too beautiful to describe, and which 
 only a duck hunter can appreciate. But at last they came within 
 a few feet of the water and circled impatiently about the blind. 
 Now with a final circle that showed their beautiful white up- 
 turned breasts the birds turned toward the south, probably at- 
 tracted by another hunter's decoys. Flying in a straight line they 
 
BLUEBILL SHOOTING FROM A FLOATING BLIND 55 
 
 passed directly over his decoys and when the hunter raised up to 
 shoot, the bluebill made frantic efforts to escape. I discerned 
 three splashes in the water, indicating three dead ducks, while 
 the remaining birds climbed high in the air and made for San 
 Pablo Bay. 
 
 With a parting glance at the fast disappearing bluebill we 
 resumed our positions in the blind and again turned our eyes to 
 the open bay. 
 
 Our attention was attracted to three bluebills with wings set, 
 which came in high from the back. No call was needed to 
 encourage them, as their actions indicated their desire to decoy. 
 Anxiously we awaited their coming and slowly reached for our 
 guns for not a second could be lost, if, when at the outside of 
 the decoys they decided not to decoy and wheel off at amazing 
 speed, greatly aided by the wind. 
 
 Straight in they came, looking for comfortable places to alight, 
 and when well within the decoys we arose in unison, each killing 
 a bird with the first barrel and the third was crumpled in midair 
 from a well-directed shot from my partner. 
 
 So the day passed, and when sunset came, regretfully we 
 picked up the decoys and rowed for shore, meanwhile listening 
 to the whistling of wings of bluebill passing over us and review- 
 ing to ourselves the occurrences of the day. 
 
 A Good Day's Sport. 
 
 New Year's Day was the beginning of a severe storm which 
 lasted forty-eight hours, passing the full length of California, 
 raising havoc in general. According to old settlers, it was the 
 worst storm in twenty-six years. 
 
 The gale from the north drove the ducks down from Oregon 
 and other northern points in great numbers. I never saw '^o 
 many ducks in my life. San Francisco Bay and adjoining waters 
 were literallv alive with canvasbacks and bluebills. 
 
56 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 It rained heavil}- and incessantly all day. I had a limit shoot 
 of twenty-five birds, bluebills and canvasbacks, shooting from 
 my "floater" on the bay. I had canvasbacks in my bag that 
 weighed nearly five pounds. Some bird, that! 
 
 When the Hunter Was Hunted. 
 
 A few years ago I had a most unusual experience while hunt- 
 ing on a small island, in Suisun Bay. 
 
 This island is probably about two miles in circumference and 
 is full of sink-holes and covered with tule grass. At this time 
 the island was infested with a most peculiar sort of wild hogs. 
 T recall an occasion when I had an encounter with them while 
 out shooting mallards. 
 
 It was the custom to walk through the tules and as the birds 
 rose in the air, shoot them. A sort of "jumping" ducks, as it 
 were. While busil}^ engaged in watching for ducks and sink- 
 holes at the same time I was surprised to see a small hog comt? 
 out in a clearing and emitting pitiful squeals. These I did not 
 pay any attention to until the wild boars and sows commenced 
 to gather and began advancing towards me. I took to the nearest 
 willow tree close by. 
 
 While perched in the tree I shot twelve of them, some with 
 tusks three to four inches long. Finally my partners hearing 
 the continuous shooting came in my direction, driving the hogs 
 away and affording relief from my predicament. There is no 
 question but there might have been serious results if the tree 
 had not been at hand and the arrival of my hunting partners, for 
 which I was very grateful. 
 
 Shortly after this a shooting club bought the island. They 
 organized hog drives at night with flaming torches. Something 
 like 300 were killed before they were exterminated. It is very 
 singular how such animals could get on the island, which is two 
 miles from the mainland. 
 
BLIND AND BATTERY SHOOTING ON 
 PAMLICO SOUND 
 
 HORATIO BIGELOW 
 
 PAMLICO Sound is probably one of the most interesting 
 bodies of water for wildfowl in the country. It is 110 
 miles long and 25 miles wide. On the beach side the water 
 is from six feet to four and one-half feet in depth, and this is 
 the feeding place and home of ducks, geese, brant and swans, 
 made happy by the sandy muddy bottom, solid with a super- 
 abundance of wild celery. 
 
 While brant and broadbill (bluebill) predominate, there are 
 many redheads and butterballs, black ducks, mallards, sprigs, 
 widgeon, canvasbacks and geese and swans. 
 
 Between Oregon and New Inlets, forty miles north of Cape 
 Hatteras and near the eastern shore of Pamlico Sound, lies Pea 
 Island. The greater part of the island is owned by a shooting 
 club and there I brought the "Dude" to let "Cap'n Jesse," the 
 club keeper, initiate him into the mysteries of duck and goose 
 shooting. 
 
 An uneventful trip from New York, by way of Cape Charles 
 and Norfolk, landed us with our guns and shooting "duds" at 
 Elizabeth City, North Carolina. Here we boarded another boat 
 for Manteo, Roanoke Island. Roanoke Island is twelve miles 
 long and three miles wide, surrounded by Roanoke, Croatan, 
 Albemarle and Pamlico Sounds. At Manteo we were met by 
 "Cap'n" Jesse Etheridge, the club keeper, who guided us to the 
 Tranquil House, where we put up for the night. 
 
 The next morning, after breakfast, Cap'n Jesse set us, with 
 our shooting togs, aboard the club's motor boat and got under 
 
 57 
 
58 TALES OP DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 way about 11 o'clock for Pea Island. This motor boat was a 
 sharpie, with a six-horse-power engine, and, though slow, was 
 well adapted to the shallow waters of Pamlico Sound around 
 Pea Island, as she only drew eight inches of water, despite a 
 twenty-two-inch propeller. 
 
 Many Thousands of Waterfowl. 
 
 Few fowl were sighted on our way down the sound imtil we 
 arrived off the "Fish House," some five miles from Pea Island. 
 A flock of swans off Bodie Island is all that I recollect. These 
 big birds looked like a fringe of snow along the shore of the 
 marsh, but as we approached and they flopped heavily off, we 
 saw what they were. From the Fish House to the island we 
 saw raft after raft of wildfowl, thousands and thousands of 
 geese and tens of thousands of ducks. Along the sky line the 
 great masses of moving fowl looked like clouds of smoke from 
 some distant factory, and the roar of their wings, as the huge 
 rafts broke up at our nearer approach, sounded much like distant 
 thunder. 
 
 In the meantime Pea Island and its small group of buildings 
 had been getting nearer and nearer, and at last we dropped our 
 anchor in the shallow creek near the clubhouse. 
 
 At about 5 :30 the next morning we were called and we got 
 into our shooting duds. Cap'n Jesse said the tide was very low, 
 and this, with the ice along the shore, did not look very hopeful. 
 After breakfast we placed our crates of decoys on a two-wheeled 
 cart, clucked to the ony, and we started for Goat Island, where 
 one of the boxes was located. We got our eighteen live geese 
 and eight black duck decoys staked out about sunrise, and then 
 waited for something to happen. The wind was blowing strong 
 from the northwest and cold — it was impossible to keep warm. 
 We saw numerous flocks of ducks and geese, but all were flying 
 outside ; none came our way. We lighted our pipes and sat 
 
BLIND AND BATTERY SHOOTING, PAMLICO SOUND 59 
 
 back for a quiet smoke. "Honk, honk, ah-honk !' We dropped 
 our pipes and peered cautiously through the sedge in front of 
 the box. We saw a single goose moving in our direction up 
 over the beach. The decoys began to call loudly and the wild 
 goose to answer. We crouched low in the box and waited for a 
 shot. The big bird circled around back of us and then came 
 down with the wind over the decoys. "Let him have it !" I cried 
 and gave him both barrels of the old eight-gauge, while the 
 "Dude" emptied his twelve at the same target. The old goose 
 was so near that he looked as big as a house, but there must 
 have been lots of space around him, as none of the BB's seemed 
 to stick. When we last saw him he was making good time 
 toward Hatteras. 
 
 About noon we went back to the clubhouse. We did not go 
 out any more that day. 
 
 The next day conditions seemed more auspicious. We put 
 out our stand of live geese decoys and black ducks again. As 
 we walked down the beach to our positions, great flocks of ducks 
 and geese got up along the shore, and many of them dropped 
 down in the sound about a quarter of a mile out from our stand. 
 We could hear the geese gabbling and honking at a great rate, 
 while we sat crouched down in the stand, and waited for some 
 of them to come in. At last our decoys began to do a lot of 
 calling on their own account, stretching their necks out towards 
 the sound. 
 
 "One of these geese sounds pretty close," said the Dude, and 
 peeking out through the fringe of sedge in front of our box, we 
 could see that the strong breeze was driving a raft of geese 
 towards the beach. Most of them drifted in very slowly and 
 finally stopped several hundred yards from shore ; but one old 
 gander kept swimming towards us. When he came to the ice 
 at the edge of the water he hesitated for a few minutes, while 
 the decoys called to him loudly, as if to say, "Come ahead, it's 
 
60 TALES OP DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 all right." This seemed to reassure him, as he waddled ahead, 
 carefully picking his way through the ice toward his seeming 
 friends. As I stood up to shoot, he rose with a frightened honk 
 and started back toward the sound. I shot under him with n<j 
 first barrel, but dropped him dead at the water's edge with mv 
 second. 
 
 After bringing him in, we lighted cigars to celebrate our first 
 goose, and sat back to wait for more. A loud honk now caused 
 us to look up, only to crouch low again as a lone goose swung 
 in from back of us and lighted among the decoys. I had better 
 luck this time and killed him with my first barrel. 
 
 During the afternoon the tide fell rapidly, and though the 
 Dude and I each got a single goose, it was more from good luck 
 than anything else, as the conditions were most unfavorable. 
 
 "We'll try the battery tomorrow, boys," said Cap'n Jesse, 
 when we got back to the clubhouse that night. 
 
 The next day was much warmer, with little or no wind stirring 
 when we started with the motor boat and the battery outfit. The 
 latter consisted of a large flat-bottomed skiff carrying a shallow 
 battery and some three hundred redhead and broadbill decoys, 
 and a small shoving skiff for "tending" the battery. There was 
 no bag limit here at that time. The sale of game has only been 
 prohibited since 1918. 
 
 The Market Shooter At Home. 
 
 When we passed the sharpie of Randy Farrell, the market 
 shooter, Randy was standing with his head out of the hatchway 
 smoking an after-breakfast pipe, and we sung out, "What luck, 
 yesterday ?" 
 
 He grinned, pointed to a string of ducks hanging from the 
 rigging, and grunted, "Sixty-three." 
 
 We grinned back with thoughts of killing a few ourselves that 
 day, and asked Payne where he was going to "tie out." 
 
BLIND AND BATTERY SHOOTING, PAMLICO SOUND Gl 
 
 "Jack Shoal, sir, I reckon," said he, "I'm going to put you 
 where we've killed about all our redheads this season." 
 
 "All right, Payne, that sounds good to us," we agreed Soon 
 we were sitting waiting in the motor boat while Payne and Eddie 
 tied out the battery. 
 
 The Dude tossed up a coin to determine whether he or I went 
 in first, as we were to have two-hour relays. He won, and lay 
 back in the narrow coffin-shaped box. 
 
 "Keep well down, sir," called out Payne, and we chug-chugged 
 away in the motor-boat and dropped anchor half a mile to lee- 
 ward. 
 
 Farrell had tied out his battery on Rock Shoal, a mile or more 
 to windward of us, and we could occasionally hear his bang! 
 bang! but nothing from the Dude. Several bunches of redheads 
 seemed to us to fly over his stool, but no shots. 
 
 A Lone Black Brant. 
 
 A long black brant flew over the battery. A faint puff of 
 smoke, a sharp crack, and the wary bird struck the water with 
 a tremendous splash. The Dude waved to us vigorously to show 
 how he had scored, and, standing up, shot once again at the 
 brant, which he had winged with his first barrel. This time the 
 bird's head dropped and it drifted slowly toward us. 
 
 Soon a large flock of broadbill swung by, high up in the air, 
 but just as it seemed as if he would not get a shot, the tail of 
 the flock dropped right down into his decoys. The Dude shot 
 twice and then once more. Two that time. A flock of redheads 
 then fley by, and the Dude shot one, and later killed a single 
 redhead which he jumped up from among his decoys. 
 
 Soon it was my turn. "Now you'll get a chance to kill some," 
 said Payne, as the tender pushed off. 
 
62 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 Good Sport From the Battery. 
 
 Soon the ducks began to come — all broadbills. They would 
 show up on my left and fly along as if they did not see the stool 
 until they got back of me, and then would sweep down over me 
 like a flock of bullets. I shot again and again without getting 
 one. Two birds down when I should have killed a dozen or 
 fifteen ! Disgusted, I signaled to the Dude to take my place 
 before my time was up, and he killed a few more in good shape. 
 
 Then, as we had a long ways to go, we had to take up the 
 decoys just when the birds were flying thickest. In thirty-five 
 minutes all the decoys were in the skiff, and the battery aboanl 
 and tied down. Pretty quick work for two men. 
 
 The next two days we shot out of the battery under much the 
 same conditions — a fair southwest breeze half the day, with the 
 duck moving; followed by a flat calm, with little doing. 
 
 On the following morning I had the first two hours in the 
 battery, and though the breeze was very slight, the fowl were 
 moving well. The first shot killed a single broadbill and the 
 next two shots a pair of the same species. Then as the tail of 
 a big flock swept over the decoys from the left, I killed one with 
 each barrel, and repeated the performance as another bunch 
 swung by from the right. Then I tried a long shot at a single 
 redhead flying outside the decoys and missed, and ended up with 
 a pair of redheads — one to each barrel. This was the best shoot- 
 ing I had ever done from a battery, and I was consequently 
 elated — though, of course, the ducks stooled well and the battery 
 was practically in calm water. 
 
 Our Banner Day. 
 
 Friday was the best day of the trip. We killed five brant and 
 thirty ducks that day, and I was the lucky man who was in the 
 battery when the ducks were flying thickest, during the noon 
 
BLIND AND BATTERY SHOOTING, PAMLICO SOUND 63 
 
 spell. In a little over an hour I killed sixteen ducks and two 
 brant. I was not shooting as well as the day before, but killed 
 at least one every time I sat up. With an automatic gun I should 
 probably have killed twenty-five ducks. 
 
 Two Truly Remarkable Shots. 
 
 Two shots I recall especially. One was at a brant that was 
 flying outside the decoys on my left. I gave him both barrels 
 and he still flew on, but in a most peculiar manner. He kept 
 swooping up and down, up and down, rolling heavily from side 
 to side, and finally fell dead in the sound a full half-mile from 
 the battery. The other shot was at a single broadbill that hurried 
 by on my right. He was going so fast that I could hardly get 
 my gun on him before he was back of my head, and I fired with- 
 out seeing him at all over the barrels ; but he crumpled up stone 
 dead. 
 
 These three days in the battery netted us eighty ducks. x\lso 
 six black brant, which we were much pleased to kill, as neither 
 of us had ever shot one before. We also had twelve geese that 
 we shot earlier in the week, and we killed two more each on 
 Saturday. 
 
 We were certainly sorry to leave the place, and decided that 
 mighty few Winters in future would pass by that did not find 
 us at the old stand. 
 
AN OUTING WITH THE GRAYS IN 
 MANITOBA 
 
 ANDREW A. ALFORD, M. D. 
 
 THE last touches of Summer had faded and calm and many 
 colored Autumn was about to reign supreme among the 
 grain fields, and on the marshes of the Canadian West. 
 It was the time of the year when the lure of the wild calls with 
 outstretched arms to the man that is a lover of dog and gun, to 
 leave his civilized haunts to journey out into the vast uncovered 
 prairie. 
 
 In this region our greatest sport is undoubtedly goose shoot- 
 ing. We decided to go. As to our party it was the same old 
 one of many years, still hung together. Captain in command, 
 Bob as first lieutenant, with Bill and myself as adjutants, made 
 up the party. We choose as our means of locomotion a "Ford," 
 famed as the only car for such an escapade as goose hunting, 
 where time and again you take to the air unintentionally to avoid 
 a piece of rough prairie trail — it is the car ideal for the job. 
 
 We left the old ranch at 4 in the morning, as we had a strip 
 of road to head ofif before the Wawa tribe would leave the lake 
 for breakfast.. It was our object to locate the flight in the 
 morning and get in for the fun at the afternoon flight. We 
 soon had two hours of darkness and thirty miles of road un- 
 ravelled, but still there was road ahead ; but 7 o'clock found us 
 in a good position to see what the ideas of the feathery biplanes 
 were that morning. 
 
 64 
 
AN OUTING WITH THE GRAYS IN MANITOBA 65 
 
 We were not detained long in waiting, for far to the south 
 the faint but ever distinct sounds of the scouting flock were 
 heard as they left the old lake for the feeding grounds to the 
 north. 
 
 Bob picked up the glasses and after some peering into the 
 dark-colored horizon, the misty specks of gray appeared. 
 
 Closer they came, passed high overhead and were soon lost 
 to view in the northern sky. Another battalion took a like course 
 and then a continuation of the gray Hues were kept up. Where 
 were they going? Cap to the rescue — ever trained from the 
 early eighties in the science of goosedom— had sized up the situa- 
 tion and knowing the country was well aware of the place where 
 they were going to feed. Distance with a machine is not at all 
 troublesome; but the same is true of wings and the pursued had 
 it on the Ford just a little. After an hour we caught up. They 
 were here — lots of them, the biggest bunch of grays I had seen 
 for many moons. 
 
 We Do Justice to Our Breakfast. 
 
 We lunched before we had left the ranch, but by now we 
 were beginning to feel the pags of hunger again, so we directed 
 our attention to the cause, and the grub box was decided upon 
 as the "cure." We would take in the situation while we ate 
 breakfast. It was always on Cap that we relied to put the spice 
 in the grub line, and it was upon him that the honor fell, while 
 the rest of us assisted. Breakfast this time had to take the place 
 of dinner, so accordingly there was an excavation in the grub 
 box when it was concluded. We now felt better towards our- 
 selves but worse for the geese. 
 
 The day was going. Short October days soon waste to even- 
 ing, and as the goose tribe feed earlier as the Fall wears on, we 
 had not much time to spare. The geese had left the field half 
 an hour before. The great battalion of grays went oflf in three 
 
66 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 divisions strung out over a couple of miles of prairie. We had 
 anticipated the place where they would go off. This is where 
 so many hunters make a mistake — they would have been there 
 and given them a farewell with chilled shot which would have 
 left such lasting impressions that the geese would not have re- 
 turned to feed. We were too old at the game to make any such 
 blunder and allowed them their peaceful meal, hoping down in 
 our hearts that we might make it more entertaining for them 
 in the afternoon. 
 
 The time had arrived for us to get busy, putting in our line 
 of trenches, underground work and the such like. War with 
 geese in modern times must be carried on along the same lines 
 as war with men. We chose as our location the slope of rising 
 ground on the field where they had fed, facing the south and 
 backed up by the ever-increasing northwest wind which was 
 going to be of so much service to us in making them "sweep 
 the stubble." You might get a few geese with a calm but you 
 will never make a kill without a gale. Try it. I have time and 
 again with poor results. We dug ourselves in, to use a military 
 expression much in use not long ago. We used as breastwork 
 for our pits picked stubble, which gave things a very smooth ap- 
 pearance. Everything must bear an even and smooth line to be 
 inviting to the eye of the goose if he is not going to show his 
 timidity. 
 
 The underground forts at last reached completion, and we 
 were ready for eventualities. Cap's pit was large, for it took a 
 lot of space to hide his large quantity of avoirdupois, and to 
 my idea it looked more like an old-time barracks than a blind 
 on the goose grounds. Cap never was so careful to see that 
 things were smooth ; but at the same time he was always there 
 with his share at the end. He schooled our gang in the rudi- 
 ments as well as the finer points of the game. All set. Bob 
 and I were each armed with a pair of binoculars and it was not 
 
AN OUTING WITH THE GRAYS IN MANITOBA 67 
 
 slow the way that we hunted up cobwebs three miles away and 
 quite often called them geese. As for the real thing there did 
 not seem to be any. 
 
 Geese Appear At Last. 
 
 Bob at last picked up a small flock, five in number, coming 
 on north, but from the way they were meandering along it 
 looked as though they had lost the road — at any rate the road 
 that led to our decoys. They at last went out of sight and it 
 was not a little strange that it dampened our feelings, for it 
 usually happens that where the first bunch goes the rest follow. 
 We waited. From our blinds was an excellent view to the soutli, 
 and with the aid of the glasses we could see toward the lake 
 for ten miles. At last another regiment came from out the gray 
 horizon — they were miles away yet and with the glasses it was 
 impossible to tell how their minds were made up. "Believe they 
 are coming our way," said Bob. It was true enough. Miles had 
 passed and they were at last in our field. 
 
 Enjoys Renewing Acquaintance With the Geese. 
 
 It was good to see those great birds coming on after being 
 away from them for two long years. On they came until they 
 were yards away. From the arrangements of our pits and de- 
 coys the geese would naturally go between our blinds and give 
 us side shooting. These were in no way different from others ; 
 their ideas were like ours. By now they were only a hundred 
 yards out, wings soared, legs outstretched, yes, even now their 
 toenails were in sight. Would the suspense ever be over? All 
 anxious to feed — it was now only a question of who would sam- 
 ple the first head of wheat. Alas ! what changes soon take 
 place! What a moment ago was a great battalion of grays mov- 
 ing along in order were now scattered, boring and gyrating off 
 
68 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 in every direction, after the contents of four double-barreled 
 shot-guns had done their work. After excitement, smoke and 
 geese had cleared away, what next? Five lifeless grays dead in 
 the stubble. "Pretty good for a start," said Cap, and all agreed. 
 
 The afternoon sport had begun. Did it feel good? I can 
 vouch for that. We were ready to hit anything with feathers 
 on it after that sort of start. Bob still stayed at the outlook. In 
 a second orders run. "Mark south!" We looked around and 
 there they were, coming along nicely. Five fine big fellows 
 those. "Can we get the flock? " put in Bob. "Be a gentleman," 
 put in Bill, "three will do." The little bunch were flying in a 
 sort of choppy fashion. You know, everybody does who has 
 been on the goose trail much, how a bunch of geese wink and 
 flutter in their flight when they do not know exactly where they 
 are and expect every moment that a volley of lead will rise from 
 the stubble. These fellows had heard the previous cannonade 
 and you could not blame they for being shaky. They made up 
 their minds, however, not to alight, but to fly over the decoys in 
 their pursuit of the previous flock. A splendid shot they offered 
 us. Forty yards up, just five geese, four guns, eight shots, 
 and a solitary goose kept on going north. "Guess everybody's 
 got his eye today," and it looked so. 
 
 Nine out of two flocks looked good ! However, we wanted 
 more and anyway there were twenty times that many geese to 
 come out, reckoning on what went in. "Mark east" some one 
 shouted. Three hundred yards out were a hundred wavies, 
 v.'orking up against the decoys. "Those devils won't decoy," 
 put in Bob, but we gave them a chance and in less time than it 
 takes to change your mind they were upon us. A long-drawn- 
 out undulating flock at our gun ends. When the atmosphere 
 cleared — not much damage done — a single white snowball had 
 faded, that was all. 
 
AN OUTING WITH THE GRAYS IN MANITOBA 69 
 
 "Same darn luck," shot off Bob, "those white janglers skin 
 us every time even when we get them in range." 
 
 "I don't see how I missed mine; he was right at the end of 
 my gun ; those shells must be bad," put in Cap. 
 
 Bill and I would willingly have offered a similar excuse, but 
 Cap had called it early and saved us. 
 
 Things slacked. What happened! Wo soon found out. A 
 mob of grays had slipped in to the east of us, and had chosen 
 a new feeding ground. "Guess the jig is up," Bob grumbled out, 
 and he was nearly right. When a mob of geese get on a field 
 and keep spilling their music on the air, it is by way of choice 
 the place for the remainder of the flight for the day. There 
 was no bettering of our position ; we would wait where we were 
 for the remainder of the day, hoping to even up matters some- 
 what next morning. We would no doubt pick up an odd old 
 scout, who would be looking for information at first hand re- 
 garding counterfeit decoys. Just then a flock appeared in view 
 from the north borne down by the wind. They were high up. 
 "Migrators," suggested Bill, and with their eyes fixed on southern 
 California the geese passed by and were soon swallowed up in 
 the southern sky. "Looks as though these fellows wouldn't sta}' 
 much longer ; getting too cold for them down there, east." 1 
 peered through the stubble which fringed the top of my pit. 
 There, sure enough, were a pair of white chaps nosing along, 
 stubble high, right in the direction of our blinds. Were they 
 going to decoy? No, no chance, they were out scouting, and 
 our blinds, thanks to luck, happened to be in their invisible 
 course. Bang! bang! only two shots from Cap's old Smith 
 and the living "snow balls" were lifeless among the decoys. 
 Another course of the excitement over. Would we get any 
 more? Cap was optimistic, although the afternoon was fading 
 into evening. 
 
70 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 "South! Grouse!" A flock of them came cruising along at 
 a fifty-mile clip — veritable bombs to hit. Everybody had a shot 
 at them, which in all cases except one turned out to be misses. 
 Hard luck, only one grouse out of fifty. "How did I miss 
 them?" queried Bill. I kept silent. Enough said. Another link 
 in our shoot was complete. 
 
 Geese Leave For Roosting Place. 
 
 Away to the east of us over the hills against the ruddy sky 
 large squads of geese were leaving the field for the lake, spilling 
 their broken clang on the still evening air, which in turn wafted 
 to our ears. This is the time of day during which the man 
 who* shoots, reflects. The day is gone; it has brought its own 
 pleasures, and yet within it all there is a feeling" of loneliness 
 and sadness when one hears the varied sounds of the Wawa tribe 
 going home for the night. Then there is the feeling of uncer- 
 tainty about the game that gives it its "pep," and which looms 
 up filling your breast, and you wonder if they will return after 
 the cruel persecution which had been given them such a short 
 time before. 
 
 We were through for the day. Gathered up the munitions and 
 with guns, geese, decoys and what not packed on our shoulders 
 we were soon on our way to the Ford, which had been waiting 
 at a near-by bush. Things were soon stored away and the old 
 machine was purring away, cutting off the miles in the direction 
 of the location where the geese had fed, and where we intended 
 to renew acquaintances next dawn. 
 
 Now was to come one of the branches of the hunting tree 
 which I get more real enjoyment out of than the mere killing of 
 the game. We drove into a little willow swale beside the road 
 and began to prepare for the night. Supper was the first thing 
 to impress itself upon us. A smart little blaze was soon going 
 in the eds:e of the trees. It lent a comfortableness to our sur- 
 
AN OUTING WITH THE GRAYS IN MANITOBA 71 
 
 roundings. Next the little kettle was humming off "ditties" of 
 former trips. Cap was in charge ; he made the tea and "poured" 
 it; The grub box was soon exploited and we were soon in the 
 midst of "Dinner on the goose trail." Cap's "scrambled egg 
 special," with toast and butter, soon found the right place. 
 Everybody threw "roses" at him that night for his ability to 
 make camp lunch. Our repast was soon over and we sat around 
 the fading fire watching it in the dark as the flickering tongue? 
 would reach out, then die as Cap would replenish it from time 
 to time. He did most of the camp work, for he dearly loved 
 it, and it made him tired to see greenhorns at a job he knew so 
 well. We perambulated back over the happenings of the after- 
 noon ; shot these two wavies again ; did it all again till we were 
 tired and the greatest blessing of the outdoor enthusiast, sleep, 
 was about to overtake us. We spread down our quilts upon the 
 ground, making a comfortable shake-down for four. This is 
 one of the most important things about hunting — get your sleep 
 or you won't enjoy shooting. A bed is always easily made, 
 and when tired you can usually sleep anywhere. A straw or 
 hay stack is hard to beat with a few blankets, and I have on 
 one or two occasions slept till the geese coming in the morning 
 woke me up with their calling. 
 
 After placing the tent over us scout fashion, we each fell into 
 our place in the bed and were soon wool gathering. My nervous 
 mechanism was keyed up pretty highly, being anxious to know 
 what we would do next morning, and I was sure that I would 
 awake. We were asleep. Bob woke up near midnight in the 
 throes of a nightmare, exclaiming, "Shoot him, Bill ! Shoot 
 him! I'll pick him up," and at this endeavored to leave the bed 
 to retrieve his "What not," but when he woke up he was a bit 
 chagrined and quietly settled down and finished the night. 
 
72 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 Making Preparations Next Morning. 
 
 The next morning Bill woke us up at 5 :30, and we were all 
 soon astir. Pits to dig, stubble to pull and other tasks as well. 
 Being close to the field, we had only a short distance to go. We 
 got the location all right, with "goose blooms," or feathers, to 
 any liking, of one night's growth. 
 
 This done we set at underground work again. Cap took to 
 one spade while Bob took to the other. It was hard digging. 
 "Devilish stuff," said Bob, and went on,' "those fellows knew 
 how good the digging was here or they would not have fed here. 
 Those fellows will pay for this. My leg is an inch shorter push- 
 ing this shovel," and Bob measured himself into a hole about 
 eighteen inches deep and a foot and a half across. It was 
 adamant. I did not hear Cap's consideration on the subject, 
 but can promise you that they were interesting, and oh ! how he 
 would promise and repromise himself how he would even up 
 with the cackling brethren. Finally we finished, and the greatest 
 bunch of scarecrows you ever saw on a field was the result, yet 
 it was here that we were to stake our chances. 
 
 Daylight soon began to show gray in the east, followed by 
 the ruddy tinge of the sun following in the dawn. It is now 
 when a chill comes over you, and you ask yourself why in Hades 
 are not at home in bed, instead of persecuting the innocent. 
 Your only answer is that it is the lure of it. "I can't help it." 
 
 "They will soon be here if they are coming," Bob announced. 
 Yes, away to the east we heard the sounds of the early risers 
 and then the first long line serpent-like line came into view 
 against the eastern sky. 
 
 "Coming this way,' said Bill. Their long-resounding notes 
 were coming closer, as they traveled along, on the still morning 
 air. Closer and closer. Yes, from the tone of their conversa- 
 tion, a conference was on foot as to what fool-headed geese were 
 feeding so close to such dangerous looking objects as our blinds. 
 
AN OUTING WITH THE GRAYS IN MANITOBA 73 
 
 A little more excited discussion as to which side of the field they 
 would take, and then further questioning as to who had seen 
 those upheavals the previous evening. "It looked bad," thought 
 the leader, and "I shall avoid it ; we will feed at a safe distance 
 from here and walk over later in the morning and interview our 
 friends." And they did. Very smooth indeed, but can you 
 imagine our size? "No." Atoms were mountains. What were 
 we to do? Not look on at any rate. The newcomers were 
 better decoys than ours, and they w^ere no doubt better callers, 
 although Bill thought that he was "Real good." "Put them 
 up," said Cap, and Bob took a shot at them with the rifle. 
 Away they went. 
 
 We Now Try Something New. 
 
 We would try a new stunt. We each ran to a nearby straw- 
 stack, took all the straw we could carry, and in a few minutes 
 made a dozen other blinds similar to our own at different places 
 in the field. Back to our old forts out of breath. What w-ould 
 the result be? We would soon find out. The geese naturally 
 would think that there could not be a man in every blind and 
 hence would probably decoy. Along same six "laughers" with 
 their tee ! tee ! he ! ee ! Nothing semed wrong and they were 
 hungry for breakfast. They sighted the decoys, cut their wings, 
 outstretched their legs. Nothing to it ; they were going to 
 alight. No, no. Cap w^as out for revenge, as were the other 
 members of the quartette. Did they get it? Only partially. 
 Two fine big speckled fellows fell in among the decoys, while 
 another, badly wounded, went down half a mile up the field. 
 
 More coming east. On they came. This was the feeding 
 ground. "If we only had good pits we would kill a bunch," 
 put in Bill. Swish ! whif ! whif ! whif ! and the wings were 
 right on top of us again. I tried to turn around in the pit, 
 a volley passed my ear, an excited volume of goose cries, a 
 
74 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 shower of goose blooms and that was all. "Watch that flock!" 
 shouted Bill, "I hit a fellow there !" Just then a goose's wings 
 went together and he came down like a brick. "He's dead ; 
 we'll get him later," and we did. Then a shower of adjectives 
 emanated from a nearby blind which is no uncertain manner 
 gave you a very good word picture of our blinds. I concurred. 
 I wished at times I was a grasshopper, so that I could have 
 gotten rid of the lower half of my anatomy. 
 
 "Get down !" Yes, another regiment in sight. They were 
 coming straight on. Cap saw them first and I was unable to 
 locate the way they were coming. At last I heard them, and 
 almost at the same instant Cap gave the word to give it to them. 
 Fooled again ! Cap rose up to shoot, hearing some wings close 
 to him, which turned out to be a flock of pintail ducks just 
 ahead of the geese. The geese, of course, were wise and gave 
 us the go-by. Well, those "sharp-ended" ducks came in for 
 some harsh criticism. But while we were in the midst of this 
 another bunch of grays came in sight. Surely nothing would 
 mar our chances this time. We could all see them. It was our 
 chance if we could only hit them, and I made up my mind to 
 do it for myself. In between the pits they came. A sound like 
 artillery rolled forth. "Evened up at last," said Cap, as he went 
 out with a deal of satisfaction and gathered up seven fine 
 Hutchins. We were satisfied if we got no more. The morning 
 was getting on, with a terrific wind rising and banks of clouds 
 rolling over from the northwest. 
 
 "Guess it is all over," said Cap, and we pulled up stakes. We 
 got our material loaded up and then took a few moments to eat 
 lunch. We were soon on our way home, everybody satisfied 
 that we had a good shoot, had enough game to make it worth 
 while, and yet not be "game hogs," and promised ourselves that 
 we would return again and pay our old haunts a call at some 
 future date. 
 
ON FAR-FAMED LITTLE RIVER 
 
 JOHN B. THOMPSON 
 
 LITTLE River, in southeast Missouri, where unrestricted 
 by banks, spreads across the level surface in a series of 
 wild, untamable swamps. It is wonderfully enticing 
 feeding ground for ducks, with its submerged wilderness of 
 timber, with its great swards of smartweed, with its stately 
 beds of yonkapin, watery meadows of trenchant saw grass and 
 defying breaks of the omnipresent elbow grass. Its overflow is 
 traceable to the earthquake of 1812. 
 
 A small river darting from its source in the hills, on reaching 
 the alluvial lands attempts the colossal task of draining an im- 
 mense territory, and, finding itself incapable long before half of 
 its course has been attained, floods the surroundings with a 
 series of lakes, ponds and sloughs, even far back into the segre- 
 gations of timber, where the sun never meets the earth except in 
 Winter. 
 
 It is only a few miles from the Mississippi, so naturally it is 
 the feeding ground of the big flights during the Fall and Spring 
 pilgrimages. But should there chance to be open water through- 
 out the Winter, as frequently happens, the ducks remain. No 
 doubt they consider that it would be a squandering of Nature's 
 bounteousness, with an assortment of food and balmy weather 
 conditions, to travel further south. 
 
 I have spent many days, weeks and months in the Sunken 
 Lands districts of Missouri and Arkansas (Reelfoot Lake is 
 just adjoining in Tennessee) among the native hunters and have 
 
 75 
 
76 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 had many unique experiences among them. Of course, with the 
 lid now on so tight on market hunting, there have been many 
 changes in the past few years. Many of them now act as guides 
 for hunters from the big cities or for tourists. Every resident 
 capable of firing a gun was a market hunter, and is yet, if the 
 laws only permitted him. 
 
 Settled By French. 
 
 The older class of natives indicate conclusive proof of the 
 former stand of the French. Not only their countenances con- 
 firm it, but their names certify to their origin. Godair. De Lisle, 
 La Forge, Du Priest, and other names smacking of the Gauls, 
 evince the blood of the pioneers that settled in the swamps near 
 New Madrid over a century ago. 
 
 Some of the residents at present are outcasts from the war- 
 ring factions of Reel foot Lake, which is only a short distance 
 across the Father of Waters. There is a constant pilgrimage 
 between these two Sunken Land abiding places, yet there are 
 many who never vouchsafe the reason of their presence, or their 
 former occupation, for they are never questioned about it; if 
 they are willing to abide by the unwritten laws of the swamps, 
 they are made welcome. 
 
 The native hunter of the Sunken Lands is gifted with a tre- 
 mendous acuteness in understanding the habits of wildfowl. 
 He is singularly correct about what days ducks will come into 
 the decoys ; the "lead" which they will follow ; his prophecies 
 are almost incredible in their correctness. He only glances at 
 the water lapping the flags to form his decision. Then while in 
 the blind he is motionless — a thing of stone — until the moment 
 for execution arrives, and he kills his ducks to fall only in open 
 water. He is a splendid caller, something you seldom see among 
 sportsmen, for they are as likely to call a flock of pintails with 
 
The Chesapeake Bay Dog Ferg's Bingo. Owner, Dr. 
 W. D. Jones, Devils Latce, N. D. 
 
 
 -'' ;> ':: • "^X ■«<"' ■»7<V y2 
 
 The Prize-Winning Chesapeake, Edmund's Lusitania. 
 
Ernest McGaffey and Teal Ducks. 
 
 Duke of Chesapeake. Owned by F. E. Richmond, 
 Calgary, Alberta, Canada. 
 
Some of Pudgy's Victims on the Texas Gulf Coast. 
 
 Beverly's Violet Pudgy at Aransas Pass, Texas. 
 
 Owner, George C. Eicholtz. Breeder, A. L. 
 
 Beverly, Sanborn, Iowa. 
 
William C. Hazelton. 
 
 My Star Duck and Ail-Around Dog, "Jack 
 
ON FAR-FAMED LITTLE RIVER 77 
 
 the same note used for mallards. They are in this guided solely 
 by the flight of the ducks. 
 
 The insight of a native, under certain conditions, is nothing 
 less than marvelous. There are times when ducks are every- 
 where in sight in flight, yet nothing can tempt him into the 
 blind, for he believes he is infallible about when the ducks will 
 decoy. Strangely, while guided by the signs which are indeed 
 confusing to the average mortal, he seldom incorrectly reads 
 them. 
 
 No persuasion can lead the native to violate the unwritten 
 agreement of allowing the flight a rest on Sunday. He is to be 
 praised also — and the same cannot be said for the average city 
 sportsman — for his absolute refusal to molest the ducks near a 
 roost. 
 
 Roost shooting, which is the most vicious system of wanton 
 slaughter, is indulged in too frequently by the hanger-on of the 
 swamps, not the genuine native, and unfortunately, he has been 
 encouraged in this by the example of the city sportsman. 
 
 The writer appreciated a neat way the "Little River bunch" 
 prevented an invasion of roost shooters. 
 
 At the roosts in the neighborhood of Five Hundred Acre 
 Bend, a party of city men, guided by a Reelfoot outcast, dropped 
 in for the sole purpose of bombarding roosts. The native hunters 
 got wind of it. At sunset, in the flag stands close by, they lighted 
 balls of tow saturated with coal oil. The gunners stationed at 
 the roost were unable to behold the small flame, but the ducks 
 circling above refused to drop in as was their custom at night. 
 
 It is regrettable that, with the exception of a few in the vicinity 
 of the shipping docks, scarcely any of them can read or write. 
 But if you are not a game warden, they will exert themselves 
 to their utmost to make your stay an agreeable one. All the 
 information thev obtain on the subject of game laws is related 
 
78 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 to them at third hand, garbled and so distorted that their con- 
 ception of the intent of the law is, at the least, very vague. 
 
 The old-timers, having erected shanties on piling and floating 
 docks, far back in the overflow — live contentedly. When not in 
 pursuit of the wild creatures, they care for their Hve decoys, 
 and mend their nets, but no attempt is made to cultivate as 
 much as a small garden — presuming they had the inclination — 
 for they do not not reside near enough to terra Urma to do it. 
 
 The morals of the younger generation hugging closely the rail- 
 roads, are very much lower in their standards than those of 
 the old swamper. The young men visit the towns occasionally, 
 load up on bad whiskey, and become really dangerous citizens. 
 From long preying on visiting sportsmen, they imagine them- 
 selves overly shrewd, and in consequence they are very conceited 
 in their knowledge of swamp lore. After a debauch, they de- 
 velop morbidly antagonistic tendencies toward all visitors. Hovr 
 daring some of them become can be drawn from the history of 
 the Big Lake troubles. 
 
 It is a good thing, however, that they usually settle their diffi- 
 culties among themselves, for none seem to care what happens 
 to them in the overflow. 
 
 Unique Experience in the Swamps. 
 
 One December evening the writer arrived in the swamps on 
 Little River. It was almost dark. And, as he flung aside his 
 belongings in the guide's camp house, he was informed thai: 
 there was an abundance of ducks. That night a north wmd 
 drove down mercilessly through the swamps. It howled most 
 hideously through the unseasoned and unmatched planking of 
 the small edifice of sweet gum. 
 
 My aspirations drooped considerably at the thought of every- 
 thing becoming frozen during the night, and the flight far off 
 
ON FAR-FAMED LITTLE RIVER 79 
 
 in the South. Just as I anticipated, the next morning an un- 
 ending sheet of ice greeted my eyes. The weather was bitterly 
 cold. I could hear the soft swish of wings, as I glanced overhead 
 and beheld flock after flock hastening southward. 
 
 Entering the house my guide became aware of my disappoint- 
 ment. "Don't recken we'll git enny ducks today," he said, a 
 quizzical smile spreading over his dark face. 
 
 "No, just my luck!" I replied, vainly trying to repress my 
 chagrin. 
 
 While we ate heartily of our breakfast in silence, the strange 
 play of the guide's features puzzled me. When he arose from 
 the table he pulled off his shoes and donned his rubber boots 
 and hunting coat. 
 
 "Come on !' he said. 
 
 Thinking some strange farce was about to be enacted by Jack, I 
 dressed in the same manner and followed at his heels. The ice 
 was strong enough to bear us, though we hugged the timber, 
 fearing that too close an approach to the river might reveal a 
 weak place only too late. 
 
 Jack now cut six long poles of pawpaw. Much as I wished 
 to learn of his intent. I kept apace with him without speaking. 
 He led me to a spread of open country, close to a clump of saw 
 grass, where I remembered the water was very shallow. 
 
 Great Flocks of Wildfowl. 
 
 Every glance at the sky marked long lines of ducks, great 
 banded flocks all looking for unfindable open water, or preparing 
 a burst of speed for more balmy surroundings. 
 
 Jack fastened his pawpaw poles together with stout cords, 
 until they attained a length of 60 feet. He split the end of one 
 and affixed a small board, which he carried in the folds of his 
 coat. The contrivance resembled a small snow scraper with an 
 elongated handle. 
 
80 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 "Now!" exclaimed Jack, "let's git 'nd break a beeg open place 
 in the ice." 
 
 We went at it with a will, and soon, by prodigious tramping 
 and jumping, had quite a large space broken before we waded 
 back to the bleak shelter of tawny grass. 
 
 Jack shoved his long pole into the water, worked it constantly 
 to and fro, until the water and broken ice was then churned 
 into a miniature wave display. 
 
 "Take hold of the pole now, and keep her a-goin, 'nd I'll git 
 to callin'," he said. 
 
 How the ducks came to that one hole of water in the vast 
 swamps no one can realize without having been on the scene. 
 They came in flocks, then in communities of thousands. We 
 secured our limit in a few minutes, but the play of the native 
 was too great a treat to leave immediately. I can never forget 
 how the great clouds of seething wings and startled, raucous 
 notes emanated from the vicinity of that little space of open 
 water. It was almost bevond belief! 
 
OLD BOB OF SPESUTIA ISLAND 
 
 GEORGE L. HOPPER 
 
 OF all the Chesapeake Bay retrievers, or any other kind 
 of retrievers it has been my pleasure to shoot over, Old 
 Bob of Spesntia Island stands out, in my personal recol- 
 lections, the peer of them all. He was a most perfect specimen 
 of the rough or curly-coated dog-. His outer coat was curled 
 and twisted as close and as tight as the wool on a Guinea nigger's 
 head. It felt to the hand like the wool of a Merino sheep ; in 
 color like the sands on the shore. And he weighed about eighty 
 pounds. 
 
 Old Bob was raised and owned by Colonel Ned Mitchell, one 
 of God's noblemen, standing six feet seven inches in his stocking 
 feet, a big man in every way the term may be applied ; hospitable, 
 kind and indulgent to a fault towards any boy coming to the 
 island for a day's outing, fishing, crabbing and to shoot ducks 
 and snipe. He could mix a mint julep which would make you 
 virtuous and happy and teach you to speak the truth, especially 
 when describing the largest fish which always gets away. Wood- 
 cock and quail, too, could be found in goodly numbers during 
 their respective seasons. 
 
 "Can Bob go with us, Mr. Mitchell?" was always the first 
 demand upon the Colonel's hospitality. 
 
 "Why, certainly, take Bob with you, boys ! You can't get 
 your ducks without Bob." 
 
 Old Bob would give you a very friendly recognition at tlie 
 sight of the gun upon your shoulder. But you might coax until 
 
 81 
 
82 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 you were blue in the face, not a step would he go beyond that 
 gate, to which he had accompanied you as gallantly as the 
 Colonel himself always did, upon your departure for home, after 
 a pleasant and successful outing at the Middle Island Farm. 
 Bob would sit by the gate, and if you attempted to tie a rope 
 about his neck he would let you know by unmistakable signs 
 that he would regard it as a personal insult and treat you ac- 
 cordingly. The only thing you could do was to inform the 
 Colonel that Bob refused to go. What a pleased look would 
 encompass that big, kindly and honest old face when you in- 
 formed him that Bob refused to go with you. The Colonel 
 would then come out on the porch and laughingly call out: 
 
 "Bob, come here a minute! Why don't you go along down 
 to the shore with the boys and help them to get some ducks?" 
 
 The Colonel's request was sufficient. Out the gate Old Bob 
 would bound, as much pleased as we were, and would stay with 
 us from daybreak to dark. I have seen him on such occasions 
 follow a crippled duck so far into that bay it became difficult to 
 distinguish which was the dog's head and which the duck, as 
 they arose and disappeared from the rolling waves. We would 
 become alarmed, fearing he might become exhausted by follow- 
 ing the duck such a great distance ; then we would fire our gun, 
 a signal he never failed to answer promptly by returning ashore. 
 
 Old Bob Brings Home Some Ducks. 
 
 The gunning days upon the flats or feeding grounds of the 
 upper Chesapeake are Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays. 
 Other days of the week, according to the local laws, they are 
 allowed to feed unmolested. A good, stiff northerly breeze on 
 gunning days would drift most all the dead and crippled ducks 
 not picked up by the lookout boats which attend the sink boxes 
 
OLD BOB OP SPESUTIA ISLAND 83 
 
 Upon the shore of Spesutia Island. No one knew this better 
 than Old Bob. He would be up and doing by daylight the next 
 morning, diligently hunting, and would find every dead and 
 crippled duck, then tote them, two and three at a time, to the 
 house, invariably placing them at the kitchen door. I distinctly 
 recall the old cook rushing to the dining room door one Sunday 
 morning, exclaiming in a very excited manner: 
 
 "Befo' God, Miss Susie, if Bob ain't done gone and bringed 
 home another passel of dem ducks !" 
 
 We all rushed out to see, and sure enough, there were a dozen 
 or more canvasbacks, redheads and blackheads. 
 
 A Contrast Between the Past and Present. 
 
 It is one of my most pleasing pastimes, when harking back 
 over this trail of life, to draw a comical contrast between the 
 up-to-date hunting outfit which we all possess nowadays and 
 that in general use when we were boys ; also the amount of 
 game to the number of shots fired and the cost of ammunition 
 expended, etc. We now have double-barreled automatic ejectors, 
 to say nothing of the death-dealing pump and automatic shot- 
 guns. In our boyhood days I sallied forth, in company with 
 a little nigger and Old Bob, armed with a single-barreled shot- 
 gun longer than myself, equipped with a hickory ramrod, a wad 
 of newspaper for wading, a quarter of a pound of black powder, 
 a pound of shot and a box of G. D. caps. When the waterproof 
 cap come in vogue the uttermost limit of perfection, we thought, 
 had been reached with the fowling-piece. 
 
84 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 Tolling Ducks on Chesapeake Bay. 
 
 At tolling Old Bob was unexcelled. We would saunter along 
 the shore of the island until we located a raft of ducks within 
 a half mile of shore. Then if conditions were favorable we 
 would hide behind an old log or a pile of driftwood, as nearly 
 opposite the ducks as possible. Bob was then coaxed into the 
 hiding place and a red bandana, borrowed from old Aunt Melissa 
 for the occasion, was made fast about midship of Bob's tail. 
 When the bandana was made fast and secure, out would bound 
 Old Bob, delighted to begin tolling. He would begin about fifty- 
 yards above or below us, running belly deep in the surf, barking 
 at the top of his voice, then turn at about fifty yards, keeping 
 up the performance until the ducks' attention was attracted. 
 As the ducks swam in towards the shore Bob worked back upon 
 the shore until he was to our rear some ten or fifteen yards, 
 always on the bounce and barking as loud as he could. I have 
 seen the ducks come in to the very edge of the surf; then, with 
 a steady rest and an aim that never failed, we would knock 
 over five or six at a shot, sometimes more. At the crack of the 
 gun Old Bob would rush into the water and grab the cripples. 
 It mattered not how many you knocked over, the cripples re- 
 ceived his first attention. We would gather up the ducks and 
 then move on until we located another raft of ducks at a favor- 
 able distance from shore. Thus we would continue until we be- 
 came so tired and hungry we would have tried to eat a duck 
 fried in coal tar. With the gun stock strained to the breaking 
 point by the weight of the ducks, we would homeward plod our 
 weary way, hungry and tired, but oh ! how proud and happy ' 
 Would that such happiness could always be continued until we 
 pass over the Great Divide into the Happy Hunting Grounds ! 
 
CALIFORNIA GOOSE SHOOTING IN THE 
 RICE FIELDS 
 
 JOSEPH S. RUGLAND 
 
 FOR a month we had been dreaming of geese and finally 
 the day arrived when our dream was to come true. Our 
 hunting party consisted of four congenial men, all of whom 
 are splendid wing shots and sportsmen of sterling qualities. 
 
 After a very pleasant automobile ride through the fertile valley 
 of the Sacramento, we arrived at our destination about nightfall, 
 and were met at the hotel by our guides, whom I shall introduce 
 as Ernest and William, both men being expert goose callers. 
 
 The evening is clear and a moderate north wind is blowing 
 and as we walk about the main streets of the town, for it is 
 early, we can hear geese flying overhead to and from their feed- 
 ing grounds. Their calls to one another as they pass over our 
 heads is music to our ears. 
 
 We are, of course, elated to hear that the geese are on hand 
 in countless numbers and our imaginations are strained with the 
 thoughts of our hunt of the morrow. 
 
 So we wend our way to the hotel and turn in early, but not 
 before the proprietor had several reminders to call us at 4 :30 
 A. M. without fail. 
 
 It seemed to me that I had hardly closed my eyes, when a 
 vigorous pounding on the door was heard, followed by the com- 
 mand, "Get up, gentlemen, breakfast ready in fifteen minute.'-." 
 
 Our guides were waiting for us at the breakfast table and 
 admonished us to get an early start to the hunting grounds, for 
 
 S5 
 
86 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 several miles must be first covered by automobile and then a 
 long walk across the plowed rice fields to the spot where the 
 geese had fed the day before. 
 
 Daylight found us well on our way across the rice fields and 
 what a day it was ! A brisk north wind was blowing and the 
 sky perfectly clear. Off to the west, the snow-capped tops of 
 the Sierras sparkled in the morning sunlight and distant flocks 
 of geese appeared in their long V shapes on the horizon. 
 
 Nearer and nearer they came and we plunge on and on through 
 the mushy rice checks and stubble, tingling with excitement and 
 half frozen with the cold. 
 
 We Bag Our First Brant. 
 
 One of the guides observed a flock of brant flying toward us, 
 very low and somewhat scattered, and we crouch close to the 
 ground, motionless and with eyes fixed upon the geese. The 
 guide calls Ah-unk ! and the geese answer and soon they pass 
 directly over us. They look high and we are asked, "Can you 
 reach them?" whereupon we arose and fired into the flock and 
 one large brant crumples, loses all hold and with neck dangling 
 downward, crashes to the ground. He is tenderly picked up 
 and consigned to the inner pockets of a hunting coat and again 
 we hurry on, finally arriving at the shooting grounds. 
 
 Our guides, the afternoon before, had located this spot as 
 being in the line of flight to the feeding grounds. 
 
 We immediately collect brush and make our blinds all in a 
 row, taking great care to cover them densely with brush and 
 to make them as natural as possible. 
 
 Use Newspaper Decoys. 
 
 Meanwhile our guides are setting newspaper decoys distant 
 about seventy yards in front of the blind and directly in the 
 line of flight. Common newspaper is used and spread alongside 
 
CALIFORNIA GOOSE SHOOTING IN THE RICE FIELDS 87 
 
 clods of dirt in such a manner that the geese, when answering 
 the calls of the guides, are immediately attracted by the paper 
 decoys. 
 
 However, the guides depend entirely on their ability to call 
 the geese within shooting distance. 
 
 After a few mments all is ready and we hide ourselves in the 
 blinds for the geese are now passing over our heads in countless 
 numbers. 
 
 Our guides call, first one and then the other utters the call 
 Ah-unk ! Ah-unk ! and the geese answer in return. We marvel 
 at the way the leader turns the flock in our direction. Then 
 they close their wings and cautiously sail toward the decoys. 
 But they are frightened and keep on and after a few moments 
 we discover we are about 500 yards to the left out of the line 
 of flight. 
 
 Our guides proceed to now set out some more newspaper de- 
 coys back of the blind about 200 yards and in line with the 
 decoys in front and it seemed that the line of flight was almost 
 immediately changed in our favor. 
 
 A call from Ernest turns a large flock of gray geese our way 
 and on they come. How cautiously they fly, raising at the 
 slightest alarm, until the leader discovers the decoys and brings 
 the flock toward the blind. They pass directly over us and on 
 the guides' signal, "At 'em !" we rise and pick our birds. At the 
 first shot a gray goose closes his wings and plunges downward, 
 landing near the blind. The geese start to climb but they are 
 in easy range and five more fall dead on the ground. 
 
 We enjoy ourselves to the utmost and let me add that the 
 sight of geese answering the calls of the guides, note for note, 
 their antics in decoying when suspicions are aroused and finally 
 when they are brought into shooting distance meant more to us 
 than merely shooting them. We marvel at the seemingly abso- 
 lute control the guides have on the birds and we reallv envy 
 them. 
 
88 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 A lull in the shooting occurred and William starts across the 
 rice checks to scare up a flock of white geese which are feeding 
 on fallen rice and the tender shoots of winter grain. 
 
 While stretching our legs which had become stiffened from 
 kneeling on our hands and knees in the blinds keeping out of 
 sight, a word from Ernest sends us to cover again and a flock 
 of five speckle-breasted geese are pointed out to the left of the 
 sun. As the geese were headed, they would pass 150 yards to 
 the east of our blind, but Ernest commences to call Ah-unk ! 
 Ah-unk ! and on they come, nearer and nearer, their necks out- 
 stretched and eyes and ears open. They appear to us, through 
 their actions, as having been there before but cannot resist the 
 calls of the hidden geese below them and they commence to 
 waver over the decoys. The guides use the feed call and im- 
 mediately they turn toward our blind. Thinking that they pos- 
 sibly might veer oft* we are told to shoot, but the birds are higli 
 and none come down. On they fly a hundred yards or so and 
 we are disappointed but suddenly one falls, then a second goose 
 succumbs, a little farther on the third sets his wings and sails 
 to the ground and finally the fourth bird makes a mad drop to 
 the ground. They were hit hard when passing over us but, as 
 the guides explained, the birds were coming to us and hard to 
 kill, hence the distance travelled before they fell. We carefully 
 made note w^here they fell so as not to lose them. 
 
 Guides Now Call Swans. 
 
 A flock of nine white swan appeared in the south and our 
 guides tell us they will call them over but not to shoot, as they 
 are protected. Call for call, the swans answer and as these 
 pure-white birds pass over us we can but look at them in all 
 their beauty and admire their beautiful plumage. Truly they 
 are a wonderful sigfht. 
 
CALIFORNIA GOOSE SHOOTING IN THE RICE FIELDS 89 
 
 A lone honker is sighted and the guides commence to work 
 on him but he is exceedingly wary. Three or four times he 
 circled the blind, answering the calls with much anxiety. Finally 
 on the last circle as he veered away toward the east, I could 
 stand it no longer and two loads of shot from my gun served to 
 wing-tip him. Spreading his wings, he sailed toward the ground, 
 a half mile it seemed, and finally careened over and over in his 
 mad fall. I made careful note of where he had fallen and with 
 a supply of shells, started after him. Walking through a plowed 
 rice field is hard work but the excitement of capturing my honker 
 made this efifort seem easy. When about eighty yards away, 
 the goose saw me and started to run across the field, aiding him- 
 self in flight by his remaining good wing, so I quickly dropped 
 to the ground without shooting until he finished his run. Not 
 seeing me, the bird played possum, hiding behind a small patch 
 of stubble, which enabled me to creep along unnoticed and later 
 when he raised his head and drew his body to full length I was 
 in range and a shot ended his goose days. A beauty he was, 
 weighing eight pounds, and quite a load to carry back to the 
 blind. 
 
 Sight Geese Far Away. 
 
 Awa}- to the east, just below the sun, I could see thousands 
 of geese headed our way, flying against the cold, strong north 
 wind now blowing, most of them in large flocks, one above the 
 other. Peering over the top of the blind I saw they were gray 
 geese and brant, with a flock or two of snow geese mingled in. 
 
 "There they come !" I cried. 
 
 "Where?" asked the boys. 
 
 "Just under the sun, flying low," I replied. 
 
 "Right you are," shouted Ernest, the guide. "Boys, keep down 
 this time," and we did. 
 
90 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 In a few moments they were upon us, countless bands of 
 geese, in front, in back, over us and some attempting to alight 
 in the decoys. Our guides utter the feed call and soon a flock 
 wheeled about, set their wings and sail for the decoys. They 
 come on rapidly, calling Ah-unk ! and twisting their necks, 
 looking for unseen danger. 
 
 At the command, "Punch 'em!" from William, the guide, we 
 fired into the flock, each man picking his bird and the crash of 
 shot rattling against their feathers was plainly heard. Four 
 geese crumpled and hit the ground near the decoys, one sailed 
 into the slough and two wing-tipped geese dropped into the 
 rice checks. 
 
 We went out and gathered up the dead birds and cripples 
 and placed them alongside the blinds, breast down and carefully 
 covered them with dry grass to prevent them from being seen. 
 
 Bag a Couple of Speckle-Breasts. 
 
 Two speckled-breasted geese came our way about forty yards 
 high and apparently they had heard the recent cannonade for 
 they made up their minds not to decoy. Calling them proved to 
 no avail so we took a long shot and were lucky to have them 
 both fall dead on the first two shots. 
 
 We are startled by the familiar Ah-unk ! of geese somewhere 
 in the vicinity, their call being heard plainly. 
 
 Quickly we drop to our knees and Ernest discovers seven 
 geese dropping into the decoys unheralded. They had separated 
 from a flock passing over and returned to decoy and, being in a 
 line with the sun, we could not see them. Silence prevailed and 
 goose talk filled the air. They craned their necks in our direc- 
 tion and carefully circled the blind. Once, twice, they made 
 the circuit and then, scenting danger, climbed high out of gun 
 range and made off in pursuit of other geese headed toward new 
 
CALIFORNIA GOOSE SHOOTING IN THE RICE FIELDS 91 
 
 feeding grounds. Of course we are disappointed at not getting 
 a shot at so fine a flock of geese, so turned our attention to 
 fixing several torn places in our blind. 
 
 All morning long the geese came and some flocks left their 
 toll of dead birds, other flocks proved too wily for our guides to 
 call. So late in the afternoon we left our blinds and picked up 
 the remaining dead geese scattered over our shooting grounds, 
 divided the birds and placed them in our hunting straps. To 
 save a lot of hard walking through the soft rice fields we fol- 
 lowed the slough to the main highway where our automobile was 
 parked. Here our guides bid us goodbye and we are profuse 
 with thanks for their excellent work. 
 
 Soon afterward we are homeward bound with a limit of eight 
 geese each and on rounding a turn in the road we could see the 
 sun setting behind the lofty Sierras and our ears caught the 
 faint cackle of brant and the familiar Ah-unk ! of the gray 
 goose on their way to goose heaven, the rice and newly planted 
 grain fields. 
 
REMINISCENCES OF "RAGGED ISLANDS" 
 
 HORATIO BIGELOW 
 
 WHEN the "Governor" offered me the choice of a share 
 in one of the Southern ducking cktbs I was in a quan- 
 dary what to choose. A friend who had been a member 
 of one Ragged Islands Gunning Club Association with property 
 in the "Back Bay" at the head of Currituck Sound, suggested 
 that I buy a share of "Ragged Islands" if there were one for 
 sale. I found a dry-goods merchant in Norfolk who had the 
 article in question and opened negotiations with him. He agreed 
 tO' take me as his guest to the club for a week and if I were 
 satisfied with the property I was to purchase his share. 
 
 To make a long story short, I went to "Ragged Islands." I 
 saw the property and the fowl ; I bought the share. These were 
 my first ducking days and I shall remember them as long as I 
 live. The old clubhouse was very inviting with its gun-room, 
 its big open fireplace in living room and dining room, its double 
 feather beds — two to a bedroom — and an arrow on the dining- 
 room ceiling v/hich showed the direction of the wind. The 
 keeper took down a glass from a hook over the door and guided 
 me up to the look-out to investigate. As it was Sunday, a "rest 
 day," the fowl had not been disturbed and every cove and pond 
 in the marshes had its quota of ducks, geese or swan. In "House 
 Cove," a few minutes' walk back of the clubhouse, sat a flock of 
 fifty or sixty swan, accompanied by numerous bunches of geese, 
 while ducks of all kinds dabbled about the edges or traded back 
 and forth. That night it was all I could do to sleep because of 
 the racket of those geese and swans, augmented by those of 
 their brethren who had flown in from the ocean to feed in the 
 moonlight. 
 
 92 
 
REMINISCENCES OF "RAGGED ISLANDS" 93 
 
 A Crack Duck Shot. 
 
 The club emplo}ed three men beside the keeper — two as 
 guides and one as guide and game warden to keep off the 
 poachers. They were all typical Southern baymen. The third 
 man, "Old Beacham," didn't come around to the clubhouse often 
 unless there were so many guests that he was required. He 
 lived in a little shack on the bay side of the marshes and guarded 
 the property. ■ As a young man Beacham was considered the best 
 marksman on the Back Bay and was said to have killed seventy- 
 seven canvasbacks from a battery without a miss. 
 
 At "Ragged Islands" it was the custom to shoot the outside 
 points in the mornings and the marsh in the later afternoon and 
 evening. At the former you had chances at the diving ducks — 
 canvasback, redhead, bluebill and an occasional goose or swan 
 (swan were not protected at that time) ; in the marsh you had 
 opportunities at teal, black duck, mallard, widgeon, shovellers, 
 pintail, an occasional wood duck and more geese. 
 
 My first day at the club was a "blue-bird day" as Howard, ms- 
 guide, called it, and we set out our twenty or thirty stool off 
 South Point, as what little wind there was came from the south- 
 west. x\fter sitting in the stand for some time without a shot — 
 there were plenty of ducks flying but high in the air — Howard, 
 who must have had eyes in the back of his head, whispered : 
 "Keep quiet ! Here comes a little bunch of canvas from over 
 in the ocean." I turned slightly and saw seven big ducks headed 
 our way. I didn't think they would come down but Howard's 
 call, "H-a-a-r, h-a-a-r, h-a-a-r!" attracted their attention and 
 around they flew while I squatted down not daring to move a 
 muscle. Finally with a whistle of wings they flew right over 
 our heads into the decoys. "Now \" said Howard, and we stood 
 up. We each got one as they jumped, but as the sun had risen 
 and they flew right into its glare, a wing-tipped drake was the 
 sole result of our second barrels. As our chances were poor 
 
94 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 for any sport that day we went back to the clubhouse after a 
 few hours. 
 
 Adventure With Swans. 
 
 The next day I was at Lane's with Howard. Contrary to 
 custom we had decided to shoot this point in the afternoon and 
 evening as a battery which had spoiled our shooting in the 
 morning had just taken up. A few bluebills, two canvasback 
 and a goose were lying in the grass back of the stand and it 
 seemed as if this was to be the total of the day's bag as the 
 birds had stopped flying. 
 
 A sailboat tacking up the bay rallied a large raft of fowl, 
 ducks, geese and swans, many of which headed for the ocean. 
 Their line of flight carried them in our direction, but the canvas- 
 backs in the lead were out of range. A bunch of about forty 
 swans followed the ducks toward the sea. They were flying 
 low — not over twenty feet above the surface of the water — and 
 well out from the shore. As they came by our point they cut 
 in a little to pass over the bay next to us and this brought them 
 about seventy yards from the stand. In the center of the flock 
 some eight of the great white bodies in line caught my eye, and 
 the heavy 8-gauge sent a couple of charges of BB's hurtling in 
 their direction. 
 
 "Confound it, Howard," said I, "I didn't lead them far 
 enough." 
 
 "Yes, you did, sir," was his answer, "look there, and there." 
 
 Fully a quarter of a mile away one bird like a white feather 
 pillow was floating on the water, and nearly as far again another 
 swan was down, but head up and paddling off like a steamboat. 
 Howard lost no time but hustled after the cripple in the skiff. 
 He was gone till dark and I heard him shoot several times, but 
 when he came back he brought back with him both swans. One 
 weighed sixteen and the other eighteen pounds. 
 
REMINISCENCES OF "RAGOED ISLANDS" 95 
 
 When I first went to ""Ragged Islands" the rule about taking 
 up at sundown was strictly adhered to, so that unless the weather 
 was blustery the shooting was pretty tame after sunset. One 
 memorable evening I had tied out in the west box at Murray 
 Cove. A westerly wind had been coming up all the afternoon 
 and the ducks began to fly before I was ready for them at 4 p. m. 
 This only left me only a half hour to shoot as the sun set at 4:30. 
 I had settled down in the stand when a single black duck hovered 
 over the decoys. I pulled on him twice in quick order, but 
 missed him clean. Then a pair of shovellers set their wings and 
 started to alight among the decoys. I gave them two barrels but 
 they hurried on their way. I was beginning to get exasperated 
 and when a huge flock of mallards came straight across the cove 
 to me and two "guns" brought no results, I decided it was time 
 to steady down, take my time and do something. A wisp of 
 bluewings whizzed over the decoys and this time I scored a 
 double. An inquisitive pair of widgeon also came to stay, as did 
 a fat mallard drake. I had found myself and until I took up at 
 4 :30, I didn't miss another shot. Twenty-two was my bag in 
 that short half-hour and a pretty variety it contained — mallard, 
 black duck, blue-winged teal, widgeon and pintail. I never ex- 
 pect to have such a shoot again. 
 
 Shooting Geese by Moonlight. 
 
 There were many geese "using" in Shed Cove, at the northern 
 extremity of the club property, and one moonlight night after 
 supper, Cooper took me up there. Such shooting was legal at 
 that time. 
 
 It was an ideal night for the sport in hand. The bright moon 
 reflected in the waters of the cove cast dark shadows along its 
 edges. The roar of the sea on the beach presaged an easterly 
 wind for the morrow. There were just enough light clouds in 
 the sky to make the birds show up well. 
 
96 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 A splash, a low "Honk !" and a single goose dropped into the 
 cove among our decoys. I stood up and killed her as she rose 
 against the silvery sky. Twice more this happened and the 
 second time two Canadas came to bag. Then I heard the hoarse 
 clamor of a big bunch of geese as they came in from the sea to 
 feed. The noise grew louder and louder as the birds came into 
 view. As they approached the cove they came down out of the 
 air, set their wings on the further edge and started to sail over 
 the water for the decoys. I was planning how many I could 
 get with my two guns, the "8" and the "12," when "Mike," the 
 Chesapeake Bay dog, who could stand the strain no longer, 
 leaped over the front of the stand toward the approaching fowl. 
 The noise was deafening as the frightened birds turned and all 
 I killed was one big gander which was in range when m}' canine 
 companion put in an appearance. The old dog certainly deserved 
 a whipping, but I could not do it after his faithful retrieving 
 of the other birds. He had been at the club for many years 
 and had never been guilty of such actions. Once he had swam 
 three miles after his master. 
 
 When the flight stopped I had thirteen big fellows set up on 
 sticks for decoys. I killed three out of one bunch of five. 
 
 I had heard several shots from Cooper and as he didn't seem 
 to be coming I sat back in the stand' and dozed off. I woke 
 with a start; it was as dark as a pocket and the moon had dis- 
 appeared. There were no heavy clouds in the sky and for a few 
 minutes I tried to puzzle it out. Then it occurred to me that 
 there was an eclipse of the moon due that night, hence the vanish- 
 ing act. The "plash" of a paddle sounded and Cooper pushed 
 ashore. He had six geese in the skiff, which, together with mine, 
 made a pretty respectable bag. The moon came out again to 
 view our luck before we reached the landing and it was a tired 
 but happy pair that it lighted up the old plank walk to the club- 
 house. 
 
IN THE HAUNTS OF WILDFOWL IN 
 TIDEWATER VIRGINIA 
 
 THOMAS DIXON, JR. 
 
 OLD Tidewater Virginia is the most fascinating spot on 
 our planet, I claim. I can prove it by the shore birds, 
 anyhow. When the migrating snipe have raised their 
 young in the far South, they come north to spend the summer. 
 Far up in the sky, flying V-shaped, as the wild goose, the curlew 
 leads the way in April. With his keen eye surveying from the 
 heavens the glories of the world, he sweeps over the wild beauty 
 of the tropics, calling now and then his silver trumpet-note of 
 command to his flock. 
 
 But when he looks down from the clouds and sees the thousand 
 rivers, creeks, channels and solemn marshes of Old Tidewater 
 Virginia, his voice rings with joy, his wings droop with ecstasy, 
 and the whole flock break their long silence with such a shout as 
 the Greeks of old raised when, homeward bound, they first beheld 
 the sea. 
 
 Gracefully they circle downward, chattering, calling, screaming 
 their delight. They know a good thing when they see it. and 
 they see the earth from pole to pole. 
 
 A boat is the only instrument by which man can move over 
 any considerable part of the earth's surface. The only way to 
 really get out of doors is to push off fifteen miles from shore 
 into salt water. The sea is man's most expressive symbol of the 
 eternal, and the truest test of reality. I had built a schooner 
 yacht of ocean-going tonnage, yet of such light draft she could 
 thread her way amid the labyrinths of sand shoals, mud-flats, 
 
 97 
 
98 TALES OP DUCK AND GOOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 marshes and creeks of the South Atlantic Coast. Five things 
 I tried to express in this boat — soHd comfort, safety, economy, 
 utility and beauty. Such a craft is the most useful boat in Vir- 
 ginia waters a man can build. She will go into more places and 
 do more things than other boat of her size afloat. We can 
 anchor on the feeding grounds of wildfowl where the tide leaves 
 her high and dry twice a day, and stay as long as we like. She 
 was built on the Chesapeake Bay. 
 
 We had dropped our anchor in the deep water at the head of 
 a channel in one of the innumerable shallow bays of Tidewater 
 Virginia. She swung to her anchor at sundown on the ducking 
 grounds, and when her jib ran down with a crash, a great flock 
 of brant rose with a chorus of protest that rang over the waters 
 like the baying of a thousand hounds. The flock was two miles 
 long and three hundred feet deep and their flight darkened the 
 sky like a storm cloud. 
 
 "Never mind, old boys, we'll give you something to talk about 
 tomorrow if this wind holds to the nor'west," was George's, 
 my skipper's, answer to their cry. 
 
 We were in the midst now of the haunts of every wildfowl 
 that spreads its wings along the Atlantic seaboard. 
 
 The prayer of the huntsman in search of ducks, geese and 
 brant is for cold, stormy weather. 
 
 It is impossible to get many wildfowl in mild weather. They 
 will not decoy, but will drift around the bay in great masses, 
 talking, laughing, screaming and joking at fool hunters they can 
 see plainly squatting in blinds surrounded by wooden humbug 
 birds. They never come closer than a mile in such weather, 
 and what a man says on these days would not do to go in a 
 Sunday School book. 
 
 But when a stiff breeze blows and the decoys begin to nod 
 and bob in the water, with life in every movement, then we can 
 
IN THE HAUNTS OF WILDFOWL IN OLD VIRGINIA 99 
 
 fool Mr. Duck and Mr. Brant, stock our pantry for rainy days 
 and make glad the hearts of friends in town with the call of the 
 
 expressman. 
 
 Mild Weather Not Conducive to Sport. 
 
 I never knew how much beautiful weather there was in winter 
 until I began cruising for ducks and geese. I had an idea before 
 that about half the days of our winter Hfe are bleak and stormy. 
 
 1 have found by nine years' experience that on an average there 
 are about four days in each winter month in which the weather 
 is bad enough to make a good day for ducks. If we get more 
 than four days of stormy weather in a month, fit for good shoot- 
 ing, it is a streak of extraordinary luck. And if one or two of 
 those four grand storm days do not fall on Sundays, it is down- 
 right rabbit's foot luck. 
 
 At night in the snug crew's quarters forward, there is the hum 
 of sportsman industry. The boys are loading shells with number 
 
 2 shot for brant. 
 
 The wind is howling a steady gale from the north and increas- 
 ing the length of its gusts with steady persistence. 
 
 "Hear them shrouds talkin?" cried George with a broad grin. 
 "If this wind hangs on here till mornin' we'll burn them brant. 
 Confound 'em, they're the most tantalizin' bird that ever pitched 
 in this bay. I never killed a one of 'em the whole of last winter. 
 There were no younguns among 'em. It's funny. Some years 
 there's thousands of younguns. But last year I didn't hear the 
 squawk of a dozen, and you can't kill an old brant. This year 
 the bay's full of 'em and we'll burn 'em up tomorrow — see if we 
 don't." 
 
 "I hope so," I replied. "They made me mad enough last win- 
 ter's cruise, laughing and joking about us the whole month." 
 
 "Yes, and they kept it up till they left in the spring. Nobody 
 
100 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 killed any the whole season. But if we don't have brant for 
 supper tomorrow night, I'll eat my old cap." 
 
 When George was willing to stake his old slouch cap with its 
 long visor, that looked like a duck's bill, he was in dead earnest. 
 
 "If the wind will just hold on !" I exclaimed, with sad memories 
 of high hopes many times shattered before. 
 
 "Don't worry. You'll git all you want tomorrow. It'll be a 
 question whether w^e can git to the blind. Don't you hear them 
 flaws gittin' longer and longer? That's been goin' on all day. 
 It'll be as long goin' as it was coming and it ain't got nigh the 
 top yit." 
 
 We Struggle With the Elements to Reach Blind. 
 
 Sure enough, the next morning, as we ate breakfast by lamp- 
 light at 5 :30, the wind was howling and shrieking through the 
 rigging like a thousand devils. 
 
 George looked grave. I asked what troubled his mind. 
 
 "I'm studyin' 'bout gittin' to that blind. We're goin' to the 
 Boss blind and we'll have a tussle to make it with the wind on 
 our quarter. We ought to 'a'gone to the wind'ard further be- 
 fore we anchored." 
 
 And we did have a tussle. 
 
 We took off half our decoys from the gunning dink and with 
 two ten-foot oars began to shove our craft out over the foaming 
 storm-tossed waters. It was all we could do to stand up against 
 the wind ; and with both oars fixed on the bottom, the strength 
 of two men could barely move the fifteen- foot, light cedar boat. 
 It took us an hour to push her three-quarters of a mile to the 
 blind. It was freezing cold, but we were both wet with sweat 
 when we got there. 
 
 The Boss blind is a famous one in this bay, that stands far 
 out on the mud-flats near the edge of a ship channel. It was 
 first stuck there by Uncle Nathan Cobb, the king of wildfowl 
 
IN THE HAUNTS OF WILDFOWL IN OLD VIRGINIA 101 
 
 liunters in Tidewater Virginia, nicknamed the "Old Boss" by his 
 admirers. 
 
 This particular bay has 4,000 acres of mud-flats on which the 
 w^ld celery grass grows, furnishing rich food for the birds. 
 There are many blinds of cedar bushes stuck over its wide 
 sweep, but the Old Boss blind is yet the king of them all. It 
 was placed there fifty years ago with consummate skill, in the 
 track of the brant and ducks, and all the ingenuity of rival 
 hunters has never been able to place a blind anywhere in that 
 4.000 acres to interfere with the flight of birds that pass it in 
 stormy weather. 
 
 The tide was just right. It made high water at daylight. This 
 gave us the whole of the ebb tide, the low water and the first 
 movement of the flood tide for shooting. The tides are right for 
 blind shooting on the two weeks of full and new moon, and 
 wrong on the two quarters. 
 
 As the waters fall off the flats the birds come in to feed on the 
 grass as soon as they can reach bottom with their bills, and, 
 when hungry from a long run of high tides, they come out hours 
 before they can reach bottom in search of shoal places. 
 
 We had just put out our decoys as the sun rose, and were 
 pushing into the blind, when a broadbill swept in range before 
 I had loaded a gun. 
 
 "They'll come today like chickens !" cried George. 
 
 "There's a black duck in the decoys!" I whispered, as he 
 handed me my No. 10 gun. I bagged him, and then for an hour 
 we were kept busy with the broadbill and black duck. 
 
 At last a flock of brant of about two hundred headed in straight 
 for us. I seized my second gun, loaded with No. 2 shot, and 
 made read}-. They were flying low in the teeth of the 
 gale. Now I could see their long, black necks and snowy 
 feathers arouid their legs, and they looked as big as geese. As 
 they drew nearer, with every throat in full cry, the noise sounded 
 
102 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 like the roar of a fire sweeping a canebrake, exploding the joints 
 of two hundred canes a second ! I held my breath, and as they 
 swept in range about thirty yards from the blind, I blazed away, 
 bang ! bang ! I expected to see it rain brant. I hadn't touched a 
 feather ! 
 
 "Well, I'll be !" exclaimed George. 
 
 I had the dry-grins, and looked down at my gun to see if it 
 was really a gun, when I noticed my hands trembling like a leaf. 
 
 "Brant fever," was George's dry remark. "You must git over 
 that, if we are to do our duty here today." 
 
 "I'll maul 'em next time," I promised. 
 
 In half an hour another bunch swung in and I brought down 
 three with the first barrel and two with the second. Then for 
 five hours we had the sport of which I had dreamed. 
 
 When the tide had ebbed off and left the flats dry, we counted 
 our game, and we had 17 brant, 16 black ducks and 10 broadbill, 
 a total of 43, and as fat and toothsome birds as ever tickled the 
 palate of man. 
 
 When the tide began to flow back in flood on the flats the 
 wind had died down to a gentle breeze. We took up our decoys, 
 stowed -our birds under decks, set our little sail, and as the sun 
 sank in a sea of scarlet glory swept slowly and contentedly back 
 to the Dixie. 
 
 It was a memorable day — one to tell young folks about in the 
 far-away years when one becomes a grandpa and must ask his 
 son for permission to venture out on a stormy day. 
 
 Then followed a week of tantalizingly beautiful weather in 
 which the ducks and geese and brant had it all their own way. 
 Some da}S we would get a half dozen — oftener two or three. 
 But the glorious moonlit nights, with the chorus of birds chatter- 
 ing and feeding about us, had their compensations of soul peace 
 and dreams. 
 
IN THE HAUNTS OF WILDFOWL IN OLD VIRGINIA 103 
 
 How We Dine on Board. 
 
 And then the dinners on board ! Of course, salt water gives 
 a man an appetite that balks at few things containing nourishment 
 for the human body, yet it is equally true that one can live as 
 royally on a yacht in Tidewater Virginia as in the palace of a 
 king. The way my wife cooks brant and ducks and fixes dia- 
 mond-back terrapin on board a boat is a secret beyond the ken 
 of any hotel kitchen. This is how she says it is done. The birds 
 are dressed and placed to soak in salt water five hours. Then 
 they are rubbed thoroughly with salt and pepper, and basted 
 about two hours on a very hot stove until so tender you can 
 stick a fork into the breast and turn it easily. 
 
 We are ready now for dinner at 6:30. The saloon is bright 
 and cheerful. We start the 'music-box, and take our places at 
 the table. There are four of us — my wife, our two boys, and 
 myself, but we figure for the needs of eight normal appetites. 
 The oyster plates give way to diamond-back terrapin stew. We 
 catch our own terrapin. They cost us nothing except the fun 
 of catching them. When I strike terrapin at a banquet in New 
 York I generally have to ask what it is. After the terrapin, the 
 cook sends in the ducks — four browned, juicy, smoking balls on 
 a big game platter ! It takes a whole duck for each ravenous 
 appetite — meat so delicious, so tender and toothsome it fairly 
 melts in your mouth ! We serve with grape jelly, candied sweet 
 potatoes, and steaming hot coffee. 
 
 I dream of these dinners the other eleven months of the year. 
 How far away and unimportant the land world seems now ! We 
 are fifteen miles off shore — fifteen miles from a postoffice, tele- 
 graph line, or a railroad. We never see a newspaper, know noth- 
 ing about what is going on the big, steaming cities, and have 
 ceased to care to know. Only the winds and tides are important. 
 How vain and stupid and unreal seem the vulgar ambitions of 
 
104 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 men and women who herd in those big iron and stone-bound 
 hives and strive with one another. 
 
 It was here that the sense of the pity, the pathos, and the 
 folly of this struggle first stole into my heart, and I ceased to 
 care to be great. Here in this mysterious realm of sun and 
 moon and star, wind and tide, bay and sea, sand beach and 
 solemn sweeping marsh, how small and poor that other world, 
 and how little it seemed to need me ! 
 
 Swiftly the days fly. Ten days go flashing by as a dream, 
 and we rub our e}es in vain eifort to account for them. 
 
 Wc waked one morning and found that old Neptune had hauled 
 his wind to the southeast in the night and drawn about us the 
 gray mantle of mastery, a fog. All day long it hung on, dense 
 and clinging, putting out the light of sun, moon, star and friendly 
 lighthouse. The birds never moved a wing nor uttered a cry. 
 They huddled in groups wherever the fog caught them. Far out 
 over the sand beach we could hear the deep bay of the ocean 
 hounds crying their distress. It was no use to grumble. We 
 had learned to take things as they came. A fog meant a stay 
 indoors, talk and dream and read. From our little library we 
 drew forth our treasures and forgot the fog. 
 
 Next morning it was just the same. 
 
 "Look out for weather when this clears up," was George's 
 greeting as I walked into the crew's quarters after breakfast. 
 
 "What sort of weather?" 
 
 "Cold, freezin', goose weather. I see them geese feedin' out 
 there in the sink every day the last week. If this wind hauls 
 into the nor'west tonight, the fog will lift, and we'll talk goose 
 talk in that sink blind in a way that'll make your heart flutter 
 tomorow." 
 
 Fortunate Day With the Brant and Ducks. 
 
 Next morning it was freezing and the wind was howling a 
 thirty-mile gale from the north. We went to the goose blind 
 
IN THE HAUNTS OF WILDFOWL IN OLD VIRGINIA 105 
 
 located in the sink, a deep place in the mud-flats that rarely goes 
 dry. 
 
 A Day With the Geese in Old Virginia. 
 
 "The wind's just right," said George. "Every goose oughter 
 pass this blind today. The wind's blowin' straight across their 
 track, the flocks can't hear our guns, and we can hammer 'em 
 the whole tide." 
 
 The goose is the wildest and smartest of all the fowl of our 
 coast and the most difficult to kill. I had shot only four in 
 several years' outing in Virginia, and was crazy for a storm day 
 in their track. 
 
 At last it had come. The wind was blowing now a furious 
 gale — so strong were its gusts it was almost impossible to shove 
 out of our blind against it. 
 
 The first flock of geese show by their flight the track they will 
 follow for the day. The sound of one gun heard by them will 
 change their plans instantly and cause them to take a new course 
 ten or twelve miles in the opposite direction. 
 
 But we had them today. The wind was at right angles to 
 their course, and the}' could hear nothing. The first flock came 
 as straight for our blind as an arrow. 
 
 What a sight, as they came honk ! honk ! in long, streaming 
 lines, their necks stretched and their big. four- foot wings battling 
 with the storm ! 
 
 Crack ! crack ! went four barrels in perfect time, sounding 
 like pop-guns in the howl of the wind, and three big fellows 
 tumbled. When they came swirling down it looked as though 
 we had knocked out a piece of the sky. 
 
 We pushed rapidly after them, and yet so terrific was the 
 wind they were swept a hundred yards to leeward before we 
 could reach them. Then we had a battle royal to get back to 
 the blind. We had barely started shoving with our oars with all 
 
106 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 the power of every muscle, when a flock of fifty geese circled 
 over our decoys. And two big flocks followed close on their 
 heels. Hundreds had passed before we got back. 
 
 A Chance for a Great Killing on Black Ducks. 
 
 Suddenly the sky was darkened with such a flock of black 
 ducks as I had never seen at close range. There must have been 
 a thousand of them. They sailed straight in and pitched in our 
 decoys and rolled up in a great black sheet within easy gunshot. 
 
 Trembling with excitement, I raised to make the one mighty 
 pot-shot of my life and kill a hundred, when George seized my 
 arm. 
 
 '"Don't shoot ! There's a hundred geese comin' right in. Don't 
 fool with black ducks — this is goose day !" 
 
 I let them alone and killed two geese out of the bunch that 
 came, but I've regretted that lost shot into those black ducks a 
 thousand times since, when they have been tantalizing me, on fair 
 days with their insolent display of knowledge. 
 
 When the tide ebbed off in three hours we had seventeen 
 big geese that weighed 214 pounds. We hung them up on the 
 big foreboom of the Dixie, George and I crouched among them, 
 and one of the boys snapped the camera at us. 
 
 It was a day never to be forgotten, and it will be many moons 
 before we see its like again. It was the harbinger of the greatest 
 freeze Tidewater Virginia ever saw in its three hundred years 
 of English history, and the geese knew it was coming. 
 
 The whole sweep of Tidewater Virginia was a white desolation 
 of ice ; the Chesapeake Bay was frozen eighteen miles from shore 
 to shore; and the ice was packed out sixteen miles into the At- 
 lantic Ocean. Some winters ice does not form at all in these 
 waters. As a rule, it freezes for two or three days in February 
 and then thaws quickly. Sometimes, once in ten years perhaps, 
 the bays will be frozen for a week at a time. 
 
IN THE HAUNTS OP WILDFOWL IN OLD VIRGINIA 107 
 
 During the severe storm above mentioned we had a rough ex- 
 perience, but it was worth it. We had met the ice king in his 
 white robes of omnipotent power. Of all the sounds I have ever 
 heard a moving ice field, crunching against the sides of a vessel, 
 is the strangest and most thrilling. The lighthouses, that had 
 been blinking their kindly eyes at us through so many long nights, 
 semed to have assumed now a strange, glittering glare, and one 
 night, when the storm was at its darkest and wildest pranks, the 
 nearby light was suddenly obscured. Great flocks of geese, brant 
 and ducks, lost and crazed by the storm, were dashing themselves 
 in despair to death against the gleaming lens. 
 
 I never cruise in these waters and go home willingly. When 
 the time comes to leave, I feel like a schoolboy driven back to his 
 tasks. Swiftly a month rolls by. There are engagements to be 
 met back in that dimly remembered little world where they have 
 mails, telegraph lines, railroads and newspapers. How I hate it 
 all now ! I resolve, when I go back, to make a million dollars, 
 sail away and never return except for coal and water. 
 
 The order is given to get under way. The boys beg for one 
 more day, but at last give up, swallow lumps in their throats, and 
 fight to keep back the tears. I know m}^ boys do this, because 
 their father and mother do the same thing when they are not 
 looking. 
 
 We are homeward bound now, with her big yacht ensign set 
 aft and her colors at her masthead. Every heart is heavy and 
 no one speaks. We feel as though we are sailing away into a 
 strange world. 
 
GOOSE-SHOOTING REMEMBRANCES 
 
 PERRY C. DARBY 
 
 SPRINGTIME is here again. The sun is climbing higher in 
 the heavens each day now. The south wind is soft and 
 bahiiy. The deep snow is commencing to settle and dis- 
 appear. Here are little rivulets running down the hillsides and 
 swelling all the little streams and the river is rising. All low 
 places are full of water, the blue grass is trying to put on a 
 green shade and it seems as though all Nature is getting ready 
 to welcome the geese and ducks on their journey from the 
 southland to their homes in the north. It is beckoning for them 
 to stop to feed and rest before completing their journey to their 
 breeding grounds. 
 
 Only those who have lived in the countr}' know how we watch 
 for the first signs of the coming of the ducks and geese. How 
 we listen for the first sonorous ah honk ! ah honk ! of that grand- 
 est of all game birds, the Canada goose, and know that they have 
 arrived. How that sound thrills you and your blood courses 
 through your veins a little faster if you have one ounce of sport- 
 ing blood in you ! 
 
 It seems today as though the birds are calling me as they 
 alwa}s have ever since I can remember at this time of the year. 
 Sitting here with my Chesapeake dog "Sandy," it seems I am a 
 boy again out on the marsh one of those fine mornings waiting 
 for the mallards to come in. I can shut my eyes and see them 
 settling over the decoys, their orange feet hanging down. I can 
 hear the whistle of their wings as they make their last circle to 
 
 108 
 
o 
 
o 
 
 o 
 -ti 
 
 m 
 > 
 
GOOSE-SHOOTING REMEMBRANCES 109 
 
 come in. "Sandy" seems to hear them, too, for he is looking 
 up into my eyes and pleading to go. He realizes something is 
 Avrong but he don't understand the reason. The law says we can- 
 not go forth to kill any more in the springtime and it is just and 
 right to give the birds a chance. Still I have that old feeling 
 coming over me. I go and look my guns and shooting togs over, 
 thinking of the many happy days we have spent together with 
 some good companions on hill and stream waiting for the geese 
 to come in. Of the many misses and good shots we have made. 
 How we killed the big gander and how Jim killed the three 
 speckled-bellies at one shot, how Rollie and I fooled the Hutchins 
 and Bill Bailey and I stalked the Canadas. These memories 
 will endure long after we are too old to handle a gun, but we all 
 hope to be able to meet them in the Fall when they return. 
 
 Seeing My First Goose Killed. 
 
 I can well remember the first Canada goose I saw killed. It 
 is now about thirty years ago. It was on Christmas day. I was 
 only a schoolboy then and how time flies ! 
 
 I was raised in the country and attended country school. I 
 came home one evening jvist a few days before Christmas. My 
 father and mother had just arrived from a small town where we 
 did our trading. We kids of course were looking to see if they 
 had brought home any presents. 
 
 Everything had been put away but one package, which lay on 
 the table. Being inquisitive I had to investigate. It was a sack 
 of BB shot. Father coming in, I asked him what those shot were 
 for and he told me that a big flock of wild geese were feeding on a 
 blue-grass pasture where we kept some cattle on another place. 
 
 Christmas morning I was sitting on the floor looking over my 
 presents, when father came in and seemed to be in a hurry. I 
 asked him what he wanted. He exclaimed : 
 
110 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 Trying for a Goose. 
 
 "Those geese are over there again and I am going to try for 
 one. Do you want to go along?" 
 
 Well, you can just guess I did. I forgot all about my Christ- 
 mas presents. I was all attention at once. 
 
 Father proceeded to get down the old double-barrel muzzle- 
 loading shot gun, put in two big charges of powder and then a 
 handful of BB in each barrel. Then taking the old muzzle-load- 
 ing rifle, which weighed 13 pounds, and loading it, he said: "You 
 can go along and carry this. If we can't get close enough for the 
 shot gun, I will try one with the rifle." 
 
 We went over on the hill and down in the valley. A little more 
 than a quarter of a mile away were the geese, about fifty in num- 
 ber. How big they looked to me, boy that I was. Father 
 thought that by going around on the west side of the hill we 
 could get up within about 100 yards of them, as some cattle 
 were feeding there and they would not notice us. We went away 
 around and made the attempt. Just as we got almost to the 
 cattle something frightened the geese and up they went, much to 
 our disgust. We dropped down and the geese divided, some 
 going straight north and about twenty went south for a few 
 hundred yards, then swung to the west and headed straight for 
 us. They could not see us as we were partially concealed by the 
 cattle. They came on about 20 yards high. When they were 
 nearly to us my father jumped to his feet and with the discharge 
 of the first barrel one sailed for the ground, but with the other 
 barrel he only raised a small cloud of feathers and the goose 
 kept straight on. 
 
 I did nothing but hug the big rifle. I did not shoot at all. I 
 just stood there and looked and wondered if the day would ever 
 come when I could kill those big fellows. I don't think I have 
 ever looked on such big geese as these seemed to me. I had 
 never been so close to them before. It was my first experience 
 under fire, but I loved the geese then, as I do now. 
 
GOOSE-SHOOTING REMEMBRANCES 111 
 
 Killing a Goose on the Wing With a Rifle. 
 
 It was in January, years ago, and my boyhood companion, 
 James Tarpenning, and myself were going to a little town one 
 morning to do some trading. I had along a Colt's 32-20 repeat- 
 ing rifle and my companion had a 10-gauge shot gun, one barrel 
 shot and the other rifled. 
 
 While we were passing along the country road we heard the 
 honk ! ah honk ! of some geese flying around in a large cornfield. 
 We stopped and watched them until they settled down on a little 
 piece of fall plowing just over the hill. We concluded we could 
 get close enough for a shot. 
 
 Making our way up the hill we got within about 75 yards be- 
 fore they took wing. I opened on them with the rifle. I had 
 only shot once when a shell jammed in the action and by the 
 time I could get it out the geese were 200 yards away. I pumped 
 it into them as fast as I could and about the tenth shot one let 
 go his hold on the air and fell to the ground. You should have 
 seen us two boys racing to see which one would reach the goose 
 first. I cannot tell which one of us arrived first, but I do re- 
 member how that big goose lay on his back, his white breast 
 sticking up and two prouder boys you never saw. He weighed 
 14 pounds. He had been struck between the wings, the bullet 
 coming out his neck, killing him instantly. 
 
 Money would not have bought that goose ! We had no game 
 for sale ! 
 
 As I sit here writing I cannot help but let my mind wander 
 back to the times when James Tarpenning and I, boys together, 
 spent many pleasant days on marsh and stream. Cares of life 
 did not weigh very heavily on us then. We certainly put in plenty 
 of time with the ducks and geese. 
 
 We were out one morning in the springtime. There had been 
 great numbers of birds coming north, but this morning it was 
 snowing. We decided to go to West Tarkio creek and shoot 
 
112 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 ducks as they flushed out of the stream. We arrived at the creek, 
 but found we were too late as some one had been there before us 
 and scared the birds out. Following up the creek a little ways 
 we soon became tired and as there were no birds to be found we 
 concluded to return. On our way back we saw something move 
 on a hillside more than a quarter of a mile away from us. It 
 was now snowing fiercely. 
 
 Bagging a Small Flock of Geese. 
 
 James said to me: "What was that moving?" 
 
 We stopped and carefully reconnoitered. I saw some bird 
 move it's head. I said : "They are geese." 
 
 We backed up and worked our way around the hill, coming 
 over on them from the other side of the hill. They now saw us 
 and rose in the air. We were within about 35 yards of them 
 when they flushed, four in number. We killed them all and 
 wondered how many more we could have killed if they had only 
 been there. 
 
 That was years ago. Public sentiment has changed now and 
 the ducks and geese have a chance in the Spring as they should. 
 I hope Spring shooting is gone forever, but we boys have those 
 pleasant memories of days spent together which no law can rob 
 us of. 
 
 A Pair of Canadas. 
 
 One day in the Spring there was a driving, misting rain and 
 it was anything but pleasant to be out of doors. However, I 
 concluded I would go out after ducks and taking my automatic 
 shot gun I hied for West Tarkio creek, bent on killing something. 
 
 Coming to a pond I discovered a large flock of ducks swimming 
 back and forth. Keeping out of sight I corrjmenced to crawl 
 through the grass and weeds to get within range of them. As 
 I was working my way along I noticed a pair of geese sitting 
 
GOOSE-SHOOTING REMEMRANCES 113 
 
 on the opposite edge of the pond and they were watching me all 
 the time. I expected them to fly before I could get close enough 
 to the ducks, but they just watched me and did not move. I 
 worked my way until I was within shooting distance of the ducks 
 and the geese still sat and watched me. They were too far away 
 for me to have hopes of killing one, so I decided to do what I 
 could with the ducks. I got busy and soon had eleven down, 
 three of them being crippled. I slipped two shells into the gun. 
 I then gave my attention to the geese again. They had flown 
 about 300 yards. Now they were turning and coming back di- 
 rectly towards me. I stood still and when they had approached 
 me within about 60 yards and I saw they would not be any 
 nearer to me I fired at the lowest one and she immediately be- 
 gan to sail down. I had broken her wing. She went down into 
 a clover field about 150 yards from mje and commenced to call 
 to her mate. I ran over and got as close to her as I could. The 
 male bird flew around several times and finally came straight 
 over me about 40 yards high. Curtains for Mr. Goose! 
 
 I now caught the wing-broken female and then gathered up 
 my ducks. I walked home three miles carrying eleven ducks, 
 one dead goose and one live one, besides my gun. I certainly 
 was tired when I arrived and I am no weakling, either. 
 
 I kept the crippled goose shut up a few days. Her wing 
 healed and I then turned her out with my flock and she remained 
 with us all Summer, but when the Fall came her wing had grown 
 out and one day she disappeared, never returning. 
 
 I have learned one thing. Should you wish to retain your 
 captured geese permanently, it is necessary to amputate the first 
 joint from their wing. When the Fall and Spring arrives they 
 want to ffo. 
 
114 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 An Enormous Honker. 
 
 Being invited to go duck shooting by my old friend, Bryce 
 Hayes, I gladly accepted. The party was made up of Bryce 
 Hayes, John Jeffries, my brother Ben and myself. 
 
 We went to Wilton, Missouri, for our hunt. We drove down 
 there in a car and it was one of those fine days in November when 
 Nature was at her best. A fellow really feels like living when he 
 breathes the pure air. 
 
 We arrived at the hunting grounds and divided into two par- 
 ties, John and I in one and Bryce and Ben in the other one. 
 Selecting a promising spot John and I put out our decoys and 
 made a blind of some willows. 
 
 When we arrived the birds had flown up in clouds, but we 
 did not shoot at them. We hardly had the decoys set out until 
 the ducks commenced to return. There were mallards, spoon- 
 bills, teal and sprigtails. We had some fine shooting for an hour 
 or so then came a lull in the flight. 
 
 I was looking off towards the hills to the southeast when I saw 
 a bird approaching and I said: "Get down, John, here comes a 
 goose !" 
 
 He looked at the bird, laughed and said : "Oh ! that is a 
 hawk !" 
 
 I said: "You get down and don't move. That is a goose!" 
 
 The goose came on slowly and was heading directly for us. 
 I gave a little call. He discovered our decoys and commenced 
 to set his wings and lower his flight. He came right up within 
 about twenty-five yards of us, when we both fired at him. He 
 fell like a stone. John nearly ruined our blind getting out to him. 
 
 When we dressed him we counted fifty-six shot in his body 
 alone. His wings measured a spread of six feet and four inches, 
 the largest goose I have ever seen and I have seen a good many. 
 We were very proud of that goose, John Jeffries and myself. 
 
AFTER BLUEWINGS, UPPER CURRENT 
 
 RIVER 
 
 JOHN B. THOMPSON 
 
 FIGHTING up a swift river after ducks requires a boatman 
 of more than ordinary ability. Where every foot of the 
 river is running swiftly, and only the long-handled iron- 
 shod paddle and pole are of service, the one who has had no 
 experience poling rakish johnboats up a watercourse that fairly 
 revels in speed, cannot intelligently conceive the exertion of the 
 journey. Ordinarily such a thing would not be thought of, but 
 the craving to hold a twenty on fast-flying bluewings after an 
 entire season's abstinence is irresistible. 
 
 Right off the bat my choice fell on sturdy, broad-shouldered 
 Bill Green. During the last deer-hunting season we had pushed 
 eight hundred pounds of camp baggage up the river for thirty- 
 five miles. I knew his capabilities, and they were what were 
 needed in the upstream jump shooting. For it demands a man 
 who can steady the craft in the swiftest water instantly, push up 
 on a gravel bottom almost noiselessly ; and then, if necessary, go 
 back a hundred yards or so and repeat the climb up a rapid with- 
 out blinking, should one or two teals fall back of us. 
 
 This is a lot of hard work for a few teal ducks, when we can 
 sit in a blind and kill all we want in half an hour. But the in- 
 explicable outdoor lust bids us, and we follow, showing that the 
 worst waters are conquerable, and that we can creep on ducks 
 and jump them from open gravel bars. 
 
 115 
 
116 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 Late one afternoon in September we fought up the long sweep- 
 ing shoal below Righter's bluff, which with its great rugged 
 heights of pine makes a half moon on the east bank of the river 
 for nearly a mile. We had selected the bottom below the bluff 
 for a camp site on account of its proximity to a spring and the 
 splendid chances there for killing some small-mouth bass with 
 the fly rod before supper. An erstwhile camping party had left 
 a large wide table with benches on a small promontory in the 
 bottom, which was some ten feet above the water in a grove of 
 lofty hardwoods. Espying it we pushed up to it and landed. 
 
 So far no ducks had been seen — barring a pair of wood ducks 
 that we picked up for supper. At the last moment we were too 
 tired to think of fishing, promising ourselves some sport in the 
 morning with the fighting redeyes, were the bluewings not in. 
 Such a bright night as it was induced us to overlook the change- 
 ableness of the season, whereupon we cast the tent on the ground 
 and made a bed of it, with the cover of the star-studded sky, 
 white walnut and sycamore trees for shelter. 
 
 We Strike Stormy Weather. 
 
 Being an easy person to wake, I heard the first breath of damp 
 wind hurling down on us from the Northwest. A storm was 
 brewing. I called Billy, and at that very moment the rain struck 
 us. Fortunately, already we had most of the provisions on the 
 table, through fear of prowling creatures. There was no time to 
 erect the tent, and we cut a long pole, shoved it into the fork of 
 an ironwood, and flung the tent over it. In that way table and 
 all was sheltered, but it necessitated our sleeping under the table 
 on account of the confined area it covered. 
 
 Morning came with weather of the abominable sort, for the 
 wind shrieked malevolently, and the rain continued torrentially. 
 We made a fire during lulls in the storm against a clump of pine 
 logs, that had been borne there on the breast of floods. All that 
 
AFTER BLUEWINGS, UPPER CURRENT RIVER 117 
 
 heavy rain had no power to extinguish that resinous mass after 
 it was once Hghted; and through this good fortune we managed 
 to get meals. Except for these moments all that day and all that 
 night the wind imprisoned us under that table. It was varied by 
 a walk to the fire and back. Before the next morning in our 
 imaginations every small pebble had grown to the proportions of 
 gigantic boulders. But when day came with its chilling, pene- 
 trating blanket of gray mist and there was no rain falling, we 
 felt thankful. Now we decided that no matter what the weather, 
 we would fight it up to the first cave or chance the wet gravel 
 bars, for our confinement had been nearly intolerable, and a step 
 or two away from the heat zone of the fire meant a drenching 
 in the wet switch cane. 
 
 Finally we got the wet outfit in the boat and sullenly fought 
 our way against the curent. From a near bar in advance of us 
 we heard whistling wings and feeble notes, but could distinguish 
 nothing, so heavy was the fog. We literally picked our way 
 through knowledge of the watercourse in the uncanny gray dark- 
 ness. Presently a brisk wind tripped out of the North and the 
 fog lifted, exposing the welcome light of a brilliant sun. The 
 water and land were good to see after its washing. It directed 
 our eyes to the bar in midriver. At first sight it was bare as 
 ordinarily, but on advance it took on animation. It was alive 
 with bluewings. 
 
 Though our approach was stealthy, they took fright and flew 
 upstream. Then back they came right at us, every one on racing 
 gait, vainly trying to pass his nearest companion. 
 
 We picked two drakes from the bunch, without knowing it in 
 advance, one stone dead on the bar, the other, a miserable shot, 
 which Bill had to run down in the weeds. 
 
 A few yards on we drew a single hen mallard, rather a prema- 
 ture advance agent of the Fall flight. 
 
118 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 The terrors of Harry's Rapid were formidable enough to in- 
 duce us into the route of Jones' slough cut-off, a shallow byway, 
 tame of water where we entered but excessively rapid at the 
 heading in place. The mile and a half we maneouvered with our 
 heavy load, winding in and out, finally arriving at the narrow 
 suck that came from the main river. I was poling in front, and 
 in the swiftest part the treacherous pine broke in half, and over- 
 balanced I tumbled head foremost in the cold water. The water 
 was not deep, but I rolled a few yards, much to Bill's delight, 
 before righting myself. 
 
 Wet as I was I was confident that another half hour of poling 
 up through Compton and Buffalo shoals would dry out my wet 
 garments. 
 
 A small flock of teal tried to pass us while entering the river. 
 A trio fell in easy water, saving us the labor of dropping back 
 and pushing forward agaih. 
 
 There were seen up toward the beautiful humpbacked bluff a 
 number of men working on a tie raft. But between our present 
 position and theirs we flushed at least five hundred bluewings 
 that had been feeding in the v/eeds, fringing the long bar. We 
 regarded it as uncommon that such a great number of ducks — 
 new arrivals — would exhibit no fear of men, when the noise of 
 chopping and hammering carried to us long before we perceived 
 the cause. 
 
 The rafters were much pleased when we gave them six ducks. 
 
 At noon we came into the bay of Buffalo. There is a round 
 pond of backwater made by the creek. From the route ducks 
 pursued, I was positive we would jump at least one big bunch 
 here. It is ordinarily in the line of flight and has feed — possibly 
 the only locality in the mountains of the eastern Ozarks in the 
 line of flight where ducks stay to feed. I have had trouble to 
 keep ducks off of my decoys in this hole. But today only one 
 little hen buzzed out. 
 
AFTER BLUEWINGS, UPPER CURRENT RIVER 119 
 
 I Miss a Biuewing. 
 
 "She's sure mine !" I apprised Billy. I had been shooting in 
 form, and had had some praise from the boatman, but I , now 
 proceeded to ingloriously miss her with both barrels. She flew 
 upstream, and then quickly returned and dropped in the tranquil 
 pool. I had Billy back the boat and flush her. To my astonish- 
 ment I performed as before. Not even a mite of a feather fell 
 for my exultation. She surely bore a charmed life. I hastily 
 shoved in two loads and tried out of range, just to hear the noise, 
 not for hope of killing. She went on without harm coming to 
 her. 
 
 I wondered why I could not hold on that straight-away blue- 
 wing. Could it have been the change of vibration from constant 
 fast water to that of placid that threw me off! I don't know, 
 and have never found out ; and I have done this same act on 
 many easy ones under the same circumstances ! 
 
 Before very long a few more flight ducks fell to us. Then we 
 shoved into Club House bar for lunch. The rest was a treat 
 after poling up the golden stairs of Hell's Half Acre, a well- 
 named tortuous piece of water that is by no means limited to a 
 half acre, because it is a full mile from the foot of the fall, to 
 where the swiftest water without a ripple glides away from you. 
 Two flocks of bluewings passed here, but I never made effort 
 to drop my pole and seize the gun. I remembered the killing of 
 a duck signified a repetition of the uphill performance. 
 
 No ducks were passing during lunch. The sun poured down 
 on us an August warmth, and we drowsed for an hour. 
 
 Ducks Are Plentiful. 
 
 It was a revelation as we proceeded up the river to find so 
 many ducks. It so happens here, that today the stream may have 
 every bar covered with ducks, but on the morrow not a one can 
 be flushed. They arrive with the first inclement weather, and 
 
120 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 leave with the element. All bluewings hug the bars. In only one 
 instance were they in the backwater. It is strange here that 
 they never resort to the feed pockets near the woods. They 
 leave that for the native wood ducks. 
 
 At times the shooting was miserably tame, then again the posi- 
 tion we were in was fraught with danger, and exacted as much 
 skill with push pole and paddle as with gun. To obviate the 
 necessity of retrieving dead as they floated downstream, we tried 
 to fall them to our advantage. This, however, was not always 
 as easy as the telling of it. And poor Billy more than once 
 turned our boat around and pursued the dead, knowing he had 
 harder work back to regain what he had lost in distance. 
 
 Nothing seemed to teach these bluewings that there was risk 
 attendant on passage over a man's head within gun range, but it 
 was evident that they had not been annoyed here. 
 
 At Pitman we found occasion to give most of our ducks away 
 to one of the Government's snag-boat crews, whose captain told 
 us no ducks had been on the river until the rain. 
 
 We forced our way up the entrance to Tucker Bay, and for 
 five minutes it appeared as though the river were going to be too 
 much for us. Bill, however, was loafing, and finally put on more 
 steam. Our objective was the long, open spring bay above where 
 this angry fork of the river ripped its way through gravel banks, 
 and at last found repose after beating against the rocky cliff. 
 Tucker Bay is clear, cold, sky-blue water, fed by springs. At 
 the greatest depth the bottom can be seen and the plants growing 
 there in a blanched state. About a hundred }'ards above the en- 
 trance a plank fence crosses the spring branch, and beyond is 
 flatter landscape that shows meadows of watercress and smart- 
 weed. It is in a w^ild state and off the ordinary travel of small 
 boats. And, no doubt, it was due to this, that we saw the great 
 mingling of wood ducks, crested mergansers, snowy herons and 
 shovellers. We regarded the sight with much pleasure, and de- 
 
AFTER BLUEWINGS, UPPER CURRENT RIVER 121 
 
 cided that as long as there was grub in the camp no wood ducks 
 would come to harm at our hands. 
 
 There were many more bays like this to be encountered before 
 the day would pass, and in grand hill setting like this, but the 
 wildfowl that made it their home were to be free from molesta- 
 tion as far as we were concerned. 
 
 Backing out through the tangle of cress and restless eel-like 
 water grass we toiled up Silver Shoal. Such a sweep of water 
 continuing for so long kept us busy ; and no ducks that passed 
 received a salute. At a point on the flat bar five snowy herons, 
 lithe fellows, almost destitute of fear, stared at us, their beautiful 
 crystal-white plumage strangely contrasting with the dirtiness of 
 the bar. Flying to a dead willow on our approach, they watched 
 us interestedly as we proceeded up the river. 
 
 I Make a Killing on Bluewings. 
 
 The travail was not consummated. Ahead of us loomed the 
 widest part of the river. Dug Ford. In advance there was quite 
 an expanse of bar. The upper end was dotted with bluewings. 
 In the middle of the river was situated the bar between two 
 excessively formidable races of water. 
 
 "Bill," I whispered, "do you seen them?" 
 
 "Hell, yes? There's a million of them, hain't they?" 
 
 "Which side?" I asked, waiting for the benefit of his river 
 knowledge to choose the most strategic approach. 
 
 "On the left bank side," he responded. 
 
 "Its the swiftest," I protested. 
 
 "Cain't help that." he drawled. "They hain't a'gwine to hear 
 us that-away 'cause the water raises Cain up at the haid, and 
 there's a few willows that will kiver our doin's. Now I'm gwine 
 to work hedin' the boat all the time to them willows. I want 
 duck for supper and breakfas' and some to take to Uncle Patsey. 
 So you drap your pole, and let me do hit all. Git you gun and 
 be reddv !" 
 
122 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 "But, Bill, with all the weight in this boat its too hard for a 
 man to buck up this " 
 
 "Shut up, and keep down ! Whose doin' this ?" 
 
 Having regard for Bill's ways, and confidence in his accom- 
 plishing whatever he undertook, I submitted to his hasty instruc- 
 tions, though I could not help experiencing a pang at his running 
 this water alone. If he accomplished it there was a chance of 
 getting two shots at the immense flock. The real sport antici- 
 pated was not so much the act of killing, but the fact of manceu- 
 vering within range, and the intrepidity and skill of the boatman 
 in running up the rapid. 
 
 I laid down in the bow, my eyes on Bill. He now stood half 
 crouched and shoved the long paddle to the bottom; and when 
 the steel blade caught he forced all his weight against it. The 
 long boat moved very slowly, almost imperceptibly. The water 
 sped by, hissing against its sides. Bill persisted. Once or twice 
 I sent a glance of commiseration, but Bill returned a grimace 
 which could only signify: "I'm gettin' along alright. You keep 
 down !" 
 
 A few more yards, then Bill ran the boat on the bar. For a 
 second all was tranquil, and the ducks seemed absolutely un- 
 suspicious of danger. I stamped on the gravel and whooped 
 aloud. 
 
 It was an immense cloud of ducks that got up and darkened 
 the sky line before me. I shot both barrels, reloaded and shot 
 again, as they flew every which way. Ducks fell on the bar and 
 in the fast water to my right. 
 
 Bill rushed out after those in the water ; he got six ; then espy- 
 ing two cripples he followed them up to his arm-pits all the way 
 to the east bank. Here he had a merry chase, but finally caught 
 them. He was wet to the skin, but cheery, and his cheeks pro- 
 claimed his happiness by their redness. 
 
 "I'll shore have enough for Uncle Patsey !" he said. 
 
AFTER BLUEWINGS, UPPER CURRENT RIVER 123 
 
 I continued shooting. There was some charm to that bar that 
 drew the ducks to it. I had four more chances before we re- 
 sumed our journey. It was evident that we had sufficient ducks 
 for ourselves and Uncle Patsey. This insatiable relative of Bill 
 was to meet us at our night's camp. Bill did not consider yet 
 that the bag was large. He directed me with his finger to a 
 pocket of dead water, divided from the river by a sparse growth 
 of elbow brush and willows in which innumerable bluewings and 
 shovellers were feeding. 
 
 My part should have been to say no. There was already 
 plenty. But Bill persisted with the promise he had made his 
 uncle to get him lots of ducks, and I was loath to quit. My 
 finger craved the inevitable just one more. 
 
 We See Wild Turkeys. 
 
 Bill paddled the boat over to the left bank in the shadows of 
 massive Begamah bluff, across whose summit of hardwoods the 
 sun left a path of yellow light. Out of the bottom walked a 
 dozen stalwart turkeys, big fellows of great girth, and heavier 
 than usual at this time of the year. The last touch of the sun 
 beat down on their backs until they shone like polished bronze. 
 Bill nudged me with his paddle. The big birds got sight of 
 the movement, and it was rare fun to survey them, waddling 
 with great rapidity through the spring branch, finally vanishing 
 in a density of switch cane. 
 
 The boat pursued the west bank for a ways, then on to center. 
 At last Bill paddled across, permitting it to drop quietly back of 
 the bar. 
 
 I knelt behind our brush screen. Bill was anxious for a big 
 killing. I peered at the ducks, and the last shot of the sun mag- 
 nified them into giants of their kind, giving them an undulatory 
 motion, as though they were on high waves. I knew that the 
 elare of the sun on the water had me dazzled. I could not dis- 
 
124 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 tinctly see anything in the pecuHar luminance. The ducks flew, 
 hitting a mighty gait upstream. I fired at them as they seemed 
 to vanish in the low sun. Then I searched for results. Neit. r 
 a duck nor a feather did I find. Only my eyes still blinked from 
 the glitter of the sun on the water. 
 
 "Come, let's hit it to camp," advised Bill, vainly trying to con- 
 ceal his chagrin, "or else dark will ketch us this side of Goose- 
 neck. Don't think you kin shoot, nohow !" 
 
 Silenth' until dusk I bore my weight against the pole, when 
 the boat landed on a mound of gravel. Uncle Patsey was there 
 to meet us, and became much elated at the bunch of bluewings 
 that Bill gave him. Something, however, seemed to worry Bill, 
 for he continued uncommunicative. After supper the warm 
 radiance from the rich pine knots flung a yellow glare out among 
 us, and softened Bill apparently. 
 
 "Hit's all over now, but why did you miss them ducks on 
 purpose?" he queried. 
 
 He received no answer, for it was my time for silence. 
 
REMINISCENCES OF AN OLD-TIMER 
 
 CHARLES F. COLE 
 
 SOME of my first shooting was done on the "Kankakee" 
 as we used to call the n^arsh country down south of 
 Chicago along the Kankakee River. In those days it was 
 certainly some marsh country extending away up toward Chi- 
 cago, Calumet Lake, Deep River (Tolleston, Indiana), then on 
 south and west to the famous "Illinois Bottoms." Then there 
 was Fox Lake and Grass Lake in McHenry County, north of 
 Chicago. This was back in 1872, when I lived at Geneva, Illi- 
 nois, about thirty-five miles west of Chicago. I don't suppose 
 there were ever any better duck resorts out of doors than the 
 Fox Lake region and the country south of Chicago, the "Kan- 
 kakee" and "Illinois Bottoms," Senachwine Lake and Bureau 
 County, Illinois. 
 
 While I never met the noted Kleinman boys, I used to hear 
 so much about them, and used to hunt with the fellows who 
 were well acquainted with them, that it seems that I almost 
 knew them personally. They were certainly the crack duck 
 hunters of their day around Chicago. The famous old "Kan- 
 kakee" used to hear their guns in those days, and 100 ducks a 
 day and upward for any one of them was a common thing. 
 
 In 1872 I was fifteen year old. We lived on the Fox River, 
 which was in a direct line north and south with the flight. In 
 passing to and from the resorts in McHenry County and the 
 Kankakee and Illinois Rivers the ducks used to visit us in great 
 numbers, following the Fox River valley to a great extent. I 
 
 125 
 
126 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 have seen some of the best shooting in the Spring when the ice 
 was breaking up, or had run out of the river. Of course, every- 
 body shot in the Spring those days. No one ever had a thought 
 that the myriads of wlidfowl that passed our way in the Spring 
 and Fall would ever be fewer in numbers, for they were there 
 in countless thousands. 
 
 Game of Many Kinds Abundant. 
 
 Not all the game in those days was wholly confined to ducks. 
 We had plenty of quail and prairie chickens. Jacksnipe were 
 very abundant in season. We used to have the gloden plover 
 in immense flocks. They frequented the upland pastures and 
 ploughed land. We would go out, several of us, and get in 
 cover, perhaps behind an old fence, or ditch, with high grass 
 around it, and then it was simply slaughter when the big flocks 
 came over. 
 
 Along the river and around the shores of the small lakes 
 and ponds were great numbers of sandpiper and killdeer, also 
 sickle-billed curlew, though the latter occurred much more in- 
 frequently. I have not seen a golden plover in forty years. I 
 suppose there are a few still in existence, but the great flocks of 
 by-gone days are no more. The last sickle-billed curlew I saw 
 was in 1919. I killed three from a flock two miles north of Kit 
 Carson in Cheyenne County, Colorado. I had a sheep ranch out 
 there at the time. 
 
 Days of the Passenger Pigeon. 
 
 In those never-to-be-forgotten days when we lived on the Fox 
 River we had the passenger pigeon with us in the Spring and 
 Fall. They were the genuine wild pigeons, the bird that is now 
 absolutely extinct. In the Spring, generally during the first few 
 warm days of April, the\- would make their appearance, coming 
 
REMINISCENCES OF AN OLD TIMER 127 
 
 north in small detachments of a dozen, two dozen, fifty, one 
 hundred, and sometimes in flocks of more than a hundred. But 
 usually in small flocks only. It was plain to see they were on 
 the way to ultimate destruction, for the immense flocks of 
 former days were gone. I have seen as many as a dozen small 
 flocks in sight at one time in the Spring steadily flying north. 
 Sometimes the flocks would be close together, often they would 
 be strung out, and never at any time were they wild. A heavy 
 toll was levied on the flocks as they passed over. They were 
 beautiful birds to handle and look at, and the pity is that they 
 are now no more. In those days we boys, and a great many of 
 the men, shot with muzzle-loaders, thereby affording the birds 
 a chance to get by with comparatively slight decrease in their 
 ranks, for it took some time to reload after each shot. In the 
 meantime several flocks would escape without being molested. 
 
 I shudder to think what would have happened to the poor birds 
 had we all been equipped with breech-loaders and the murderous 
 pump and automatic guns of today ! 
 
 I am still shooting the Parker hammer double gun, 10 gauge, 
 
 II pounds, whenever I go for ducks. This gun I have had since 
 1875, and it certainly has travelled some and done some execu- 
 tion. It was one of the highest grade guns Parker Bros, made 
 at that time, and I will venture to say they do not make a better 
 shooting gun today. During all this time it has never shot loose. 
 It is as tight and solid as the day I bought it. 
 
 Delights in Boat Building. 
 
 In later years as I grew up and moved away from Geneva, 
 going to Chicago, I still clung to the inborn love of the gun and 
 rod ; or, rather, it clung to me, and I availed myself of every 
 opportunity to gratify that love of field sports. After a few 
 years — I think in 1882 — I moved to Oak Park. It was a little 
 suburb of Chicago at that time, and there I had a chance to 
 
128 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 indulge myself in another of my delights — that of working with 
 carpenter tools. I used to enjoy myself then. I had already 
 built two or three boats but here, when I had equipped a good 
 shop, I determined to build an especially good boat and use it 
 on my hunts. This boat I built in 1885 and took it to Minnesota 
 with me that Fall. I certainly enjoyed building that boat and 
 it was so good that a fellow up there talked me into selling it to 
 him. I went that year to Murray County in the extreme south- 
 western part of the State, Bear Lakes country. 
 
 The next year I built another boat of red cedar, which was 
 a better one than I had built the year before. 
 
 A Model Duck Boat. 
 
 The following year I had a beautiful duck boat built by R. J. 
 Douglas & Co. of Waukegan. This boat was built of white 
 cedar and copper nailed. Sharp at both ends, thirteen feet long, 
 three feet beam, decked all over except a cock-pit five feet long 
 and two feet five inches wide, oak combing around cock-pit four 
 inches high to keep out the water. This boat sat very low in 
 the water and when sprinkled with litter or a few rushes on 
 each end you could shove into short grass or thin rushes, lie 
 back, and the ducks would come right in to the decoys and 
 never see you. This boat was as dry as a cork all the time. 
 I used to have a little dry hay in it for warmth and comfort and 
 certainly got a world of pleasure out of that boat. The bottom 
 was sprung a little five feet from each end so that it would pass 
 over Hlies or aquatic plants on the water, noiselessly, and would 
 run in a few inches of water, giving me a chance to get into 
 places that almost any other boat could never have gotten into. 
 I have never in all my experience seen a duck boat that quite 
 came up to that one for genuine merit. I sold this boat in 1892 
 to my old friend, Noah White, of Wilmar, Kandiyohi County, 
 Minnesota. I used to stop at his place at Little Kandiyohi Lake, 
 six miles south of Wilmar. 
 
REMINISCENCES OF AN OLD TIMER 129 
 
 Speaking of Little Kandiyohi, reminds me that that locality 
 was one of the grandest places for duck and geese I ever saw. 
 It is located about 100 miles west of St. Paul on the Great 
 Northern Road. It used to be famous for many years, and a 
 club was formed of St. Paul and Winona men who went there 
 regularly. I shot there several seasons and also at Big Kandi- 
 yohi Lake, about four miles from there, which was a noted resort 
 for geese. 
 
 The Celebrated Kandiyohi Pass. 
 
 Kandiyohi used to be almost as well known to Minnesota duck 
 hunters as the Illinois River was to Illinois shooters. Many 
 sloughs, ponds and shallow, grassy lakes made it a great resort 
 for mallard, teal, pintail and gadwall, and on the large lakes 
 were many canvasbacks and redheads. 
 
 I went to Kandiyohi the first time in October, 1889. I had 
 long desired to see the famous "Kandiyohi Pass" described by 
 Charles A. Zimmerman many years before in an old number of 
 Harper's Magazine. Zimmerman went out there with a party 
 of friends in 1877 and afterwards wrote up his experiences. 
 He told many interesting incidents and one, especially, that al- 
 ways impressed me. Three geese headed for his blind. He tried 
 to change his duck loads for goose ammunition, but in his haste 
 got a swelled shell stuck fast in the breech of his gun and had 
 the mortification, he says, of "seeing the geese sail over a rod or 
 two above his head, close enough to have used the duck loads 
 with deadly effect." Zimmerman was an artist as well as a 
 duck hunter and made a sketch of this scene as he imagined it 
 must have looked to his companions. He called it "A Tight 
 Shell." A reprint of the original picture used to stand in the 
 window of Eaton's gun store in Chicago, together with a com- 
 panion picture called "A Side Shot." They were beautifully 
 done in colors and faithful in every detail. I used to admire 
 
130 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 these pictures often and even go out of my way to look at them. 
 I little thought then that I should some day stand perhaps on 
 the same ground that Zimmerman stood when he became the 
 chief actor in the scene of "A Tight Shell." Zimmerman illus- 
 trated his article on Kandiyohi with pencil sketches among which 
 was one of the famous "Pass." This sketch is reproduced in 
 Alfred Mayer's "Sport With Gun and Rod in American Woods 
 and Waters." A bridge of heavy timbers crossed the narrows, 
 or neck, of the Pass and constituted that part of it called "The 
 Bridge Stand." Ducks were always trading here, back and forth, 
 their number depending on the time of day and weather condi- 
 tion. Plenty of evidence of the great sport was always to be 
 seen here by the quantity of shells lying about on the planking. 
 On my first trip out there I did all my shooting on Little 
 Kandiyohi Lake, stopping with a farmer whose place was located 
 on the south shore of the lake about two miles from the Pass. 
 The lake was bordered with a heavy growth of rushes, the shore 
 line irregular, with points reaching out into open water, affording 
 the finest of decoy shooting from natural blinds. I went out 
 there again in 1890 and that year the flight seemd to be heavier 
 in the direction of Big Kandiyohi, which is in a straight line 
 four miles south. As we drove up to Big Kandiyohi Lake the 
 first time I went there, I shall never forget the unusual sight, 
 even for that time and locality, of at least a thousand — and in 
 reality probably many more — geese in practically one mass; 
 some flying, but most of them rafted like ducks about a quarter 
 of a mile out from shore. x\s we drove through a fringe of wil- 
 lows and out into plain sight, a great flock of Canadas were just 
 arriving. As they swung over the mass another big flock arose 
 from the water and then bedlam let loose ! The outcries of the 
 geese mingled with that of the brant and Hutchins geese sent a 
 deafening babble of wild cries across the water hard to describe. 
 Anyone unfamiliar with such a scene could have faint concep- 
 tion of the uproar and pandemonium that reigned. 
 
REMINISCENCES OF AN OLD TIMER 131 
 
 A Red-Letter Day Among the Waterfowl. 
 
 On a later day, in a small marshy lake of about two miles in 
 extent, lying to the north of Big Kandiyohi, I spent a "red-letter" 
 day among the ducks. 'After watching the flight for a time to 
 determine a good location, I finally pushed my boat into thick 
 rushes on a point on the east side and about half way to the 
 north end. A good forty yards of open water lay in front of 
 the blind, while behind me grew thick rushes. I got into this 
 location about 9 o'clock. The wind, which was from the north, 
 had been increasing since sunrise and was now blowing a gale, 
 threshing off the ends of rice stalks and flags and whipping the 
 water into white caps. The ducks were leaving the open water 
 on Big Kandiyohi and, as is their custom on windy days, were 
 flying low, seeking shelter from the wind as far to windward as 
 possible. This brought past my blind many mallard, teal, gad- 
 wall, pintail and other ducks. I shot at no duck flying behind 
 me, nor at any that I figured, if killed, would drop in the rushes, 
 for they could not have been recovered without great difficulty, 
 if at all. I made no attempt to pick them up owing to the high 
 w4nd and the fact that they could drift no further than the solid 
 mass of rushes on my left. I had a hard time picking up as it 
 was at the close of my shooting. I figured that fully as many 
 flew behind as in front of me ; and after allowing for some that 
 must, have been wounded, or merely wdnged, and got away clear, 
 and the further fact that I quit shooting about 3:30 P. M., yet 
 I recovered some forty odd birds, as I remember it now. I have 
 often thought of that day which, for the number of ducks I saw, 
 and the number I could probabl}' have killed had I minded to 
 shoot at all that flew within range, and those I did kill and was 
 able to make use of, I consider one of the many red-letter "duck- 
 ing days" of my long experience. 
 
THE CHESAPEAKE BAY DOG 
 
 WILLIAM C. HAZELTON 
 
 THE Chesapeake Bay dogs are the one distinctly American 
 breed of dogs originating this side of the water and de- 
 veloping here. They have been bred here for about one 
 hundred years. Their history is party authentic and party tradi- 
 tional. Their progenitors were taken from a ship which had 
 foundered at sea. 
 
 A Chesapeake flat in ducking weather is another edition of 
 the Atlantic in the grip of a nor'easter. This is the native habitat 
 of the Chesapeake Bay retriever. These are the conditions which 
 have made him what he is. It has taken a hundred years and 
 more to develop him. . The result, as might be expected, is a dog 
 much different in type from other dogs and of distinctly high 
 efficiency for the purpose in view. He has to be big and power- 
 ful, considering those miles of water travel after crippled ducks 
 and the half-hour swims in ice-cold water, with perhaps six or 
 eight dives to a depth of six or eight feet each time. > 
 
 It is not muscle alone, either, for a lot of it is his spirit. You 
 can't take the heart out of him. He is not sensitive or easily 
 insulted, as a collie sometimes is, and no amount of chill, slush, 
 hard ice, snow, tide, waves or undertow or current will feaze 
 him very much. He will stand baffling, which is more than many 
 dogs will stand. As long as he has his beloved water, with its 
 chances for paddling about and living, the vicissitudes of life do 
 not worry him much. He will not quit work from a lack of 
 courage, and he has the stamina to stick it out under the worst 
 
 conditions all day long. 
 
 132 
 
THE CHESAPEAKE BAY DOG 133 
 
 Most Tractable of Dogs. 
 
 In general they depend more on their keen eyes than on their 
 nose, marking the game as it falls. In the blind they are obde- 
 dient to a superb extent — almost to the point which convinces 
 you that they understand what is required as well as you do, or 
 a little better. When you have shot for a while and told your 
 Chesapeake to "go fetch," he rises to his feet and calmly surveys 
 the field. He goes for the cripples first and gathers his harvent 
 in systematically by rounds. 
 
 Thanks to a coterie of sportsmen in the Middle and Far West, 
 and particularly in Minnesota, Iowa and the Dakotas, interest in 
 this great breed of retrievers has not lapsed. Many excellent 
 specimens are bred by A. L. Beverly, Sanborn, Iowa ; Ray Leon- 
 ard, Avoca, Iowa ; Earl Henry, Albert Lea, Minn. ; F. E. Rich- 
 mond, Calgary, Alberta, Canada, and others. Edward Gibb of 
 Suffolk, N. Y., is a prominent Eastern breeder. 
 
 Daniel W. Voorhees, of Peoria, 111., president of The Duck 
 Island Preserve on the Illinois River, and who owns many fine 
 dogs, writes concerning his Chesapeake Bay dog: "Man 'o War 
 is a great retriever, and is, besides, the smartest dog I ever owned. 
 He knows more than any dog I have ever seen." 
 
 J. F. Parks wrote concerning these grand dogs : 
 
 "The Chesapeake Bay dog has been developed to a very high 
 state of perfection on the shores of Chesapeake Bay and has 
 been used as retrievers by duck hunters in that locality for a 
 great many years. 
 
 "In color they range from a deep seal brown down through 
 the varying shades of brown to a very light sedge or 'faded buf- 
 falo' color, and in coat from the smooth, wavy, short coat to the 
 heavy thick coat, resembling very much the sheep pelt. These 
 dogs have what is known as the double or otter coat, the under 
 coat being very thick and furlike, while the other coat is of 
 coarse hair. This difference in color and coat seems to occur 
 in almost every litter of puppies, and just why this is so seems a 
 mvsterv. 
 
134 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 "The thoroughbred Chesapeake is absolutely fearless and was 
 never known to quit under the most trying conditions. Deep 
 mud, tangled rice beds and rushes, as well as extreme cold, has 
 no terrors for them. 
 
 "In order to be in a position to fully appreciate these dogs, 
 one must come in actual contact with them and enjoy their com- 
 panionship. They are, without doubt, the wisest dogs in exist- 
 ence, and as companions, they are simply in a class by them- 
 selves. As a rule, they are what is known among sportsmen as 
 'one-man' dogs. That is, they recognize but one master, and 
 when they are properly trained to retrieve, an owner need not 
 worry about getting his own duck when shooting with others 
 in a marsh or on a river. 
 
 "I have seen these dogs break ice an inch thick for a dis- 
 tance of fifty yards going after a duck and then turn around and 
 break a new channel through the ice, back to me with the duck, 
 and repeat the feat as often as they were called upon to do so ; 
 in fact, I have yet to see a retrieve so tough but what they would 
 make the attempt at it, and if a physical possibility for them to 
 accomplish it they always returned with the bird." 
 
 Opinion of Veteran Eastern Sportsman. 
 
 George L. Hopper, of Havre de Grace, Md., has the following 
 to say of these splendid dogs : 
 
 "Anything regarding the Chesapeake Bay dog will prove espe- 
 cially interesting to all the old-time Maryland and Virginia 
 sportsmen who were born and raised upon the banks of the 
 Chesapeake Bay and its tributaries; from these waters a greater 
 variety of good things can be had, with less effort, than any 
 spot or place upon God's green earth. The most of us can recall 
 the name and characteristics of some certain Chesapeake Bay 
 dog which was among our boon companions during our boyhood 
 days, when we frolicked and whiled away the blossom of youth. 
 
THE CHESAPEAKE BAY DOG 135 
 
 "That the Chesapeake Bay retriever is the greatest of water 
 dogs is undoubtedly owing to the great strength of his forelegs 
 and powerful shoulders, but more especially to that peculiar and 
 unexplicable furlike under coat, through which an oily substance 
 is mixed, like unto the down of a duck, not natural to any other 
 breed of dogs, which enables him to withstand the most rigorous 
 weather during the ducking season. He is most especially ap- 
 preciated by us old-time fellows for his knowledge of the art of 
 tolling the ducks within gunshot, and they take to tolling as 
 naturally as the setter does to pointing quail. No fox can be 
 more skillful and cunning.. 
 
 "During freezing weather the icicles do not form on the outer 
 coat of the smooth-coated dog, as they do on the rough or curly- 
 coated. But it seems to make no difference to 'Old Curly.' 
 He may tremble with excitement when the ducks are about to 
 dart into the decoys, but he never shivers and suffers from the 
 cold wind and icicles sticking to his coat. I cannot recall at this 
 writing of having ever seen a Chesapeake Bay retriever afflicted 
 with canker of the ear, with which other dogs will surely become 
 afflicted if permitted to retrieve from the water for any great 
 length of time." 
 
 In disposition the Chesapeakes are most extraordinary. They 
 are never vicious or quarrelsome with dogs or people. They 
 simply want to be let alone. To them life begins and ends tolling 
 and retrieving ducks. 
 
 The smooth, wavy, shortcoated dogs are the most desired by 
 some, because they can more thoroughly shake off the water and 
 dry out more quickly. 
 
WILDFOWL IN A STORM ON 
 NEW ENGLAND COAST 
 
 HERBERT R. JOB 
 
 1WISH I could adequately describe a scene which I witnessed 
 on the old Pilgrinl coast at Manomet one Sth of November. 
 Flying gray clouds covered the sky. The wind was northeast, 
 and increasing every hour A few boats went out early, but 
 soon came in, as the sea was becoming dangerous. Low over 
 the frothing ocean flew lines and lines of wildfowl, scudding 
 from the north before the blasts. They were in sight all the 
 time. Before one flock had passed southward, several more 
 were to be seen coming, at times six or eight flocks in sight at 
 once. 
 
 By 10 o'cock the rain began to beat spitefully on our faces 
 as we stood on the bluff with awed spirits watching Nature in 
 her passion. By noon the wind had reached hurricane force. 
 Flocks of fowl were fairly hurled in over the rocks, many of 
 them to be shot down by the "station" men and others, who 
 stood ready. I made no effort to estimate the number of that 
 day's flight. Thousands upon thousands of ducks were there, 
 and of all kinds. The surf thundered in upon the rocks, and 
 clouds of spray flew up over the top of the bluff. 
 
 In the morning when I opened the door and stepped out, a 
 blast struck me that made me gasp for breath and cling to the 
 railing. Blinded with the stinging sleet, I could not see whether 
 fowl were flying or not. A neighboring barn had disappeared, 
 lying in fragments on the rocks around the Point. Everything 
 was white with snow. Winter had come upon land, ocean and 
 wildfowl. 
 
 136 
 
FORTY^THREE YEARS 
 
 ERNEST McGAFFEY 
 
 Forty- three years I've followed the gun, 
 Rain and hail and the sleet and sun ; 
 Winds that blew from the Northland harsh 
 Wrinkling the face of the dreaming marsh, 
 Reflex warm of the sun's bright shields 
 Shining down on the stubble-fields. 
 Brakes where the round-eyed woodcock lay 
 Dimly veiled from the light of day : 
 Seasons beckon me, one by one. 
 Forty-three years Fve followed the gun. 
 
 Forty-three years Fve followed the gun, 
 Warp and woof by the woodland spun ; 
 Lakes where the bluebills curve and wheel. 
 Arrowy flight of the greenwing teal. 
 Pasture lands where the jacksnipe hide. 
 Grassy stretch of the prairies wide. 
 Blackberry vines by the orchard swale. 
 Bursting rise of the buzzing quail : 
 Seasons vanishing, one by one. 
 Forty-three years Fve followed the gun. 
 
 137 
 
138 TALES OF DUCK AND GOOSE SHOOTING 
 
 Forty-three years I've followed the gun, 
 Flush of dawn or the daynight done ; 
 Cane-brake chase of the lumbering bear 
 Roused from the swamp to leave his lair, 
 Knolls where the turkeys scratched and fed, 
 Gobbling loud as the east grew red, 
 Honking files of the south-bound geese 
 Shrouded soft in the cloud's gray fleece : 
 Seasons beckon me, one by one. 
 Forty-three years Fve followed the gun. 
 
 Forty-three years Fve followed the gun, 
 Peaks and cliffs in the questing won ; 
 Purple vaults that the distance blurs, 
 Blue grouse under the Douglas firs. 
 Tracks that carve in the clearing sere 
 Clean-cut sign of the black-tail deer. 
 Mallards packed like the hiving bees 
 Climbing high o'er the sundown seas : 
 Seasons beckoning, one by one, 
 Forty-three years Fve followed the gun.