DUCK SHOOTING IN MEXICO. 



BY PASTITA. 



Yurecuaro, a little Indian village, 

 thoiigh unknown to fame, holds a 

 tender place in my memory. No cele- 

 brated cathedral, with parti colored 

 windows, tarnished gilding and grimy 

 painting, is found within its circum- 

 scribed limits. Cortez did not found 

 it, nor was it ever the scene of blood- 

 curdling massacre, or hard fought 

 battle. Historians have not embalmed 

 it in their chronicles, nor poets immor- 

 talized it by their verse; and yet, 

 Yurecuaro, I love thee! 



A little wooden station, a tumble- 

 down church in the distance, a discour- 

 aged irrigating ditch that comes crawl- 

 ing in from the left, past nopales and 

 under mesquites, are all that can be' 

 seen as the train stops, except, perhaps, 

 the gentle savage, in various combina- 

 tions of undress uniform, who makes 

 himself numerous in his efforts to assist 

 the alighting passenger. This is the 

 port of entry to the great winter resort 

 of the feathered fugitives from the 

 north. That sluggish ditch, when 

 followed to its source (it is large 

 enough to float a canoe), carries the 

 hunter to ponds and marshes, fed by 

 springs of crystal water, with islands 

 of tule and bullrushes, and little 

 streams that wander, lost in the wealth 

 of vegetation. Here are miles of canoe 

 navigation, past farms, imder moun- 

 tains, now in a great lake, again 

 threading a small stream, drifting 

 down a river or paddling across a 

 pond; a glorious combination. 



This is the almost undiscovered 

 paradise of the hunter. Here pelicans, 

 swan, crane, geese, brant, ducks, snipe 

 and plover, and every other heard and 



unheard of variety of aquatic bird con- 

 gregate in the winter months. The 

 near-by corn and wheat fields as feeding 

 grounds, the high price of powder and 

 shot, the difficulty of approach and the 

 great extent of the region, make a 

 combination of circumstances such as 

 no member of the " Familia patus " can 

 fly over or leave behind; while the 

 delightful weather, cloiidless skies, 

 hospitable farm houses near-by, with 

 their tamales, mole, cuajada, and glad- 

 some welcome, make the delighted 

 wanderer from civilization who has dis- 

 covered these happy hunting grounds, 

 think, with regret, of the day he will 

 have to leave them. 



A folding boat is a great thing, but 

 never did it seem greater than on that 

 memorable December day, when a com- 

 placent destiny, aided perhaps by vague 

 rumors of sporting grounds to be dis- 

 covered, influenced me to explore that 

 uninviting ditch. The roll of slats and 

 canvass was dragged from the baggage 

 car and placed on the depot platform, 

 while a self-appointed committee of 

 semi-clothed natives aided the process 

 of unpacking and putting it together 

 by friendly note and comment, in which 

 languid curiosity was a prominent fea- 

 ture. What was the nondescript of 

 wires, slats and oilcloth, anyway ? A 

 tent, perhaps, or a hammock, or an oil 

 skin coat or two, or an umbrella for use 

 on a tandem, were among the siigges- 

 tions made during the process of setting 

 it up, until at last, one brighter than 

 the rest exclaimed: "Carai; mira; es 

 ima chalupita ; que no haran estos grin- 

 gos. " (Gracious, look, it is a canoe. 

 What won't these foreigners do next ? ) 



