20 DUCKING DAYS 



Pete Godair still slept peacefully. 



Suddenly after a short blow from the northwest, the 

 wind desisted. Then all was tranquil. I lifted the latch, 

 opened the door, and peering out into what was swart 

 darkness a moment before, I saw the gray of day seep- 

 ing slowly yet unmistakably through the hurrying gray 

 clouds. From the east, the sounds coming across the 

 breaks of cypress, into the water-killed tupelo gTims, 

 and wind-beaten swards of saw grass, flag and yoncopin, 

 bore the notes of numerous bands of wildfowl already 

 in flight. 



Presently I saw Pete standing at my side, rubbing his 

 dark eyes. 



"Been windy all night, I reckon," observed Pete, as 

 his eyes sought the open water approvingly. ''Ther'll 

 be no ducks coming into decoys except in the big holes 

 way back in the timber. ' ' 



And Pete was right, as he always was when it came 

 to a decision on matters concerning ducks. 



While paddling out into the big overflow we beheld 

 thousands of ducks in flight, but not a single flock jumped 

 from the water until we began to invade the heavy pin- 

 oak timber. 



We had thirty-five about as noisy decoy ducks as I 

 had ever heard talk. Evidently they were expressing 

 pleasure at the passing of the storm — or perhaps was it 

 the prospects of the luscious little acorns, or the many 



