MIGRATIONS OF WATERFOWL 



What greater place in life can a man attain than a seat by the fire on 

 an October evening? What finer thoughts than of bird, of dog, and of gun? 

 What better companionship than of elder hunters who read aloud from then- 

 life stories as they gaze into the hearth? However artificial their environ- 

 ments become, however far from nature they must stray in search of for- 

 tune, all wise young men seek a place by the October hearthstone. 



I have read many books, have spent many days on the marsh, but there 

 is much I have learned from the words of older hunters. The north wind 

 was their friend before I could hold my father's gun. In calm and storm they 

 lived many years on marshland I am just beginning to know. As the birch 

 logs crackled, I have learned that the Canvasback never wait for the heavy 

 frost. Come mid-October and the cannies are done with Manitoba. In late 

 September their numbers crowd the big marshes so that windrows of pond- 

 weed litter the shore downwind of the feeding places. In early October they 

 parade daily, passing from their loafing grounds on open water to the sago 

 beds where they feed. Then, when October is half gone, there comes upon 

 the birds a wild restlessness. In a flock loafing on the water, one bird after 

 another raises its body to flex its wings, so that there is a constant fluttering. 

 Over the marsh, small bands join to form larger flocks. Then the Canvas- 

 back are gone, all but a few strays lingering on with the scaup. 



This I was told, and all this I have found to be true. Fair weather or 

 foul, the Canvasbacks migrate south before October is finished; they are 

 gone two or three weeks before the bays are frozen. 



Casual as the teal flights may be, early as the Canvasback slip away, the 

 freeze-up flight of Mallard and Lesser Scaup is quite another thing. They 

 cling to the northland through October and on into November. Some travel 

 southward, to be sure, like teal and Canvasback, but vast numbers hold to 

 the north as long as open water remains. Then comes the time for passage. 

 The temperature drops and remains below freezing all day; it may touch 

 zero or fall below that mark. The barometer rises, a stiff wind strikes out 

 of the northwest, and before noon the skies are clear. On such a day in 

 November it is the wildfowler's duty to abandon all home ties and go at 

 once to the marsh. It is usual for little flurries of southbound ducks to ap- 

 pear early that afternoon. First one, then another, then more and more, un- 

 til one glance catches many flocks. They come out of the northwest, often 

 so high that they would not be noticed but for the volume of the flock. 

 They scurry past without stopping. By four o'clock there is not an instant 



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