THE VICISSITUDES OF SINK-BOX SHOOTING 
Then across the great, gray, dripping, sodden canopy of sky, 
Sweep the winged hosts of the Northland, where the open waters lie, 
Now the gamebag’s overflowing—for October’s sullen frown 
Is the joy of dog and master—when the ducks come down. 
JAMES W. Fo_Ley. 
It was barely daylight. The morning star was still 
visible, but it was daylight. The east was brightening 
every minute. I had left a fishline with a single hook 
baited with three blue bottle flies in the water over 
night and as I laid my gun and shell box down on the 
little landing, I gavea pullat the fishline. It felt heavy; 
my victim proved a six-pound carp, a poor eating fish 
with a most unprepossessing personal appearance. 
When everything was in the boat we started rowing 
down the river to the East Lake. 
An enormous flock of red-winged blackbirds were 
strung along on both sides of the river. There were 
thousands of them, preparing for their southern mi- 
gration. A few hundred would start up as we rowed by 
and then, following suit, the whole army of blackbirds, 
rising in one huge black swarm, would fly in their waving 
flight, all twittering together, a hundred yards behind 
us and alight again on both willow trees and tules. 
Ours was the first boat out that morning and paddling 
quietly around a bend we scared up a big flock of ducks 
that were feeding at the mouth of theriver. They rose 
from the water in little bunches, one almost instantly 
after another, in a continued splashing, quacking, hur- 
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