MALLARD—TIMBER SHOOTING. 107 
CHAPTER IX. 
MALLARD—TIMBER SHOOTING. 
ALONG the rivers in the West, duck shooters look 
ahead with fond anticipations of approaching spring, 
with its annual overflows, its complete submersion of low- 
lands, for in such places, among the tall and stately trees, 
in the murmuring, gurgling overflow, mallards had rather 
be in this season than in any other place. The hunter 
knows this, and as the short days of winter glide gradu- 
ally away, from beneath the hidden place from out its 
case or box his favorite gun is brought. With tender 
solicitude he fondly handles it, carefully looks through 
the shining barrels, thoughtfully feels the true springs 
of the lock as he raises the hammers, and then carefully 
lowers them; or, if a hammerless, with outward indiffer- 
ence he slides back and forth the safety catch. He won- 
ders if he has forgotten his old time skill, if lack of practice 
has dulled his eye, or stiffened or made less supple his 
arms, or his muscles; he looks out the window with 
thoughtful mien, and his eye sees the deep black on the 
top of his neighbor’s chimney, an arrow on the topmost 
crest of the house, some filagree work in distinct relief. 
He brings his gun toshoulder, glances over the rib, and 
then, right in front of the muzzle, accurately, he sees the 
object covered by the sighted gun. With a grim smile 
of satisfaction he lowers the gun, then raises it again 
and again, each time his faultless aim, his faithful arm 
