IN THE MARSH. 141 
duck so subdued in comparison, when her mottled yel. 
low and brown rests side by side with her noble mate. 
Just look at them dropping in down there! We are go- 
ing to have a great time with them. The water isn’t 
deep here, but mud? Anywhere from two to ten feet. 
There is a bird you don’t see often. See him? Basking 
in the sunshine on that old muskrat house,—a male 
Summer duck. What a beauty he is! In my opinion 
the handsomest bird that visits the North. He sees us 
now. Watch him how undecided he is; look how the 
colors seem to shine resplendently as the sunshine 
strikes them. What are you doing? No, you don’t! 
Drop that gun. There are ducks enough to shoot with- 
out molesting him. Away he goes, little knowing his 
narrow escape. Don’t feel hurt that I didn’t allow you 
to shoot; by not doing so you conferred a personal 
favor onme Oh, what's the use looking so inquisi- 
tively at me? If you want to know why I spared its life 
my only reason is a tender love for the bird. They are 
so inexpressibly beautiful, so affectionate, their gor- 
seous plumage always seems to me to light up the dull 
marsh with such surprising beauty, that I just haven’t 
the heart to shoot them. Do you think me effeminate ? 
I hope not. 
We are getting among them now, they rise from the 
marsh in countless numbers,—what a sight! All kinds 
and sizes; the deep sullen roar of their wings their 
loud quacking, the sight of so many so near, just out 
of gun range, fill us both with thrilling, anxious expec- 
tation. It doesn’t take long until we are in their re- 
treat, set out the decoys, fix the blind, and are making 
sad havoc with them. At times, they come with great 
frequency and regularity. This is easily accounted 
