86 WILD FOWL SHOOTING. 
the milk in thy refrigerator to sour, and thy negligent 
hen hath forgotten her daily task, remember, that I am 
thy neighbor, and that my Jersey cow and Brahma hens 
still live.” — 
This was too much for me, and with the apple still 
lodged in my throat, I gasped, ‘* Let’s eat our lunch.” 
Witnessed by the tall trees, our mouths filled with 
ham sandwiches, his wet arms clinging around my 
neck, we swore eternal friendship, Harry and I. 
After lunch, Harry profiting by his successful shot, 
made several beautiful ones. He followed the sug- 
gestions made, and as a result was rewarded by seeing 
his birds killed clean and dead. We both shot ten-bore 
guns, full choked,—mine a nine and three-fourths, his a 
ten lb. Our shells were loaded with four and one-half 
dims. powder, a card, a thick felt, then another card on 
powder; one and one eighth oz. No. 6 chilled shot, with 
a card wad on top, the shells being firmly crimped. 
This makes a very killing load, and with it we had no 
difficulty in reaching the duck forty and at times fifty 
yards. We stayed until about 4:30 in the afternoon, 
and killed a nice bunch of ducks. Of course lost some, 
but not many. Harry did the wading, but when the 
birds dropped in deep water I sculled to them, and 
picked them up. 
We arrived at the station at dark. There were two 
hunters there. They had been out all day, had the 
same opportunities we did, but did not know how to 
hunt; and as they said to me that night, “the con- 
founded ducks always flew just where we were not.” 
They showed three, the result of their day’s work, while 
we exhibited to them just sixty-six,—all mallards. 
On the train home, they related their experience and 
