46 “COME DUCK SHOOTING WITH ME” 
together long enough to allow the young tules to get a 
start in life. 
Beyond the ox skull was the East Lake, our daily 
shooting grounds. There were no clouds. A little 
breeze was blowing but scarcely enough to ripple the 
surface of the water. Jimmy after leaving me and my 
possessions in the Davis Island sink box, rowed away 
and with the skiff was soon lost from view in the reeds 
along the shore. Sitting in the sink box I was below 
the level of the water, entirely hidden from sight but 
in the center of seventy-five duck decoys, two thirds of 
them lumps of black mud and getting more sunburned 
every minute. 
It was very quiet on the marsh. Ducks were scarce 
and most of the hunters that came down for the shoot- 
ing at the opening of the season had returned home. 
The silence of the great marsh was very pleasant after 
the constant shooting on all sides of the opening days of 
the season. Outside of ducks and geese, the marsh 
people. are never in a hurry to get up in the morning. 
The remnants of the daylight flight of ducks were still 
flying over the distant marsh, alighting in little bunches 
in different pond holes to spend the day feeding and 
sleeping. Outside of these distant ducks and a couple 
of meadow larks that were making short crisp flights 
along the shore, all hands were still resting. 
A large hawk, apparently the earliest riser in marsh 
society, came zigzagging and dipping just above the 
grass, slowly quartering the ground, hunting for break- 
fast. Suddenly rising a few feet he poised motionless 
on almost invisible wings, then darted down into the 
tall grass where I lost sight of him. 
A crow came flying across the lake, every now and 
then uttering a very cross sounding ‘‘caw,’’ evidently 
