58 WILD FOWL SHOOTING. 
the trees, goes a flock of blue-winged teal. Look out; 
right in front of you, a pair of mallards. Try and get 
them both, draw on the drake, then the duck. Two 
deep reports, and both are dead, almost at our feet. 
What a sight! The loud report of the gun roars, echoes, 
and reverberates, through the deep woods, and from 
their depths spring up mallards in almost countless 
numbers. We see them indistinctly through the timber ; 
first, just off the water, the bright spots on their tails 
conspicuous by its purple surroundings, then we catch 
faint glimpses of them through the dense trees ; and 
last, set out by the strong light of the clear sky, we be- 
hold them rising above the tree tops. What a noise 
they make ; soslightat first, at the start a faint ‘“ Whew,” 
—then a loud flapping of strong wings, until all merges 
into a deep roaring, like distant rolling thunder. 
We scullaround the small peninsula, and go through 
the long grass and scatter dead grass over the bow and 
sides of the boat, that it may correspond with the sur- 
roundings. The ducks return to feed ; we kill them, 
singly, in pairs, make difficult and seemingly impossible 
shots, then with both barrels, score clean misses at one 
almost in our face. Thus the time passes quickly away. 
The flight ceases. Our constant shooting has driven 
themaway. The dead are picked up. A nice bunch they 
are, fully twenty and all mallards. A pleased smile is 
noticed on your face, as you seat yourself again in the 
boat. Down the little bay we go; the light northwest 
wind slightly stirs the smooth water, causing it to up- 
heave many ripples. Out in the center of the bay a 
small flock of blue-bills are unsuspectingly floating on 
the water. When from the fringed and willowy shore 
we emerge silently, noiselessly, they arise in dire alarm. 
