GREEN FROGS AND A BOTTLE OF BEER 
“‘In dreams of the night I hear the call 
Of wild ducks scudding across the lake. 
We enter the blind as the crimson flush 
Of morn illumines the hills with light, 
And patiently await the first mad rush 
Of pinions soaring in airy flight.” 
Wm. HENry DRUMMOND. 
IT was a great relief to get out of the dusty train and 
board the launch for the sail down Bear River, in Utah, 
with the prospect ahead of a few weeks of good duck 
shooting. It was a perfect Indian summer day in 
middle October, warm and pleasant with no wind. A 
blue haze, softened by distance, partly veiled the dis- 
tant snow-capped mountains on both sides of the North 
Lake. The banks of the river were flat and uninviting, 
but relieved in places by rows of stunted trees, from 
which most of the leaves had fallen. Deserted magpie 
nests, great bunches of tangled twigs as big as a bushel 
basket, perched among the higher branches of every 
other one of the scattered trees, were the most prom- 
inent objects in the nearby landscape. A colony of 
green herons camping out in several of the larger trees 
tossed themselves, one after the other, into the air as 
we passed and shuffled away in an awkward flight to 
other trees, where they alighted, rocking on their feet 
with a great waving of balancing wings, before coming 
to a standstill. The water was high and the launch 
started up small bunches of ducks, mostly redheads and 
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