24 DUCKING DAYS 



Gradually we drew close to Pete's shack. Pete threw 

 out in the water all the decoys except my lady of the call- 

 ing qualities. Evidently she was his favorite. Across 

 the swamp in the west we heard the rattle of ditching 

 machinery, which in a few years was destined to convert 

 the wilderness into a land of productiveness. 



I noted Pete, as he heard the sounds of the big engine 

 cutting its way through the swamp. He was silent, 

 pensive. His face was a study. I knew what he was 

 thinking of, the passing away of this vast inundation 

 into the control of man. And thoughts entered my mind 

 quickly of what all this meant. Ducking grounds un- 

 paralleled for generations would soon feel the touch of 

 the plowshare. Miles and miles of heavily timbered deer 

 and turkey country would yield the staple crops of the 

 South. With chagrin I gazed up at the sky, and saw 

 flock after flock of mallards pitching into the willow- 

 oak slashes. Then I turned to the little mallard hen. 

 She was no more on the alert — ^her head turned half 

 contemplatively buried in her wing. Had she, too, lost 

 her vocal vigor at the presaging destruction of her 

 home? ! 



