” 
260 DUCK-SHOOTING. 
hiding-places, and killing a goodly number in spite 
of their sharp ears and strong wings. 
Of the particular shots, the numerous misses, the 
various mishaps, it were vain to tell. A baptism in 
the shallow bay-water is regarded as a necessary 
initiation, and not being dangerous, the ceremony is 
frequently repeated. Good shots are rarer than bad 
ones, even with the best marksmen, and perhaps the 
author would have to vindicate truth by telling some 
awkward blunders of his own, and thus forfeit the 
reader’s respect forever. It is sufficient for the read- 
er to recall the best day’s sport at ducks he ever 
had, to imagine his own shooting considerably im- 
proved, his strength and activity augmented, and his 
promptest deliberation surpassed; and he will have 
a faint idea of our performance. It is enough to 
say the birds were there, and we were there. 
Towards night we occupied a series of points 
above the Gap, as it is called—an opening between 
the island where the house is situated and the land 
beyond—and waited for the evening flight. The 
wind had died away, and as the sun was setting, the 
mallards came in from the lake to pass the night. 
Innumerable flocks, one after another, appeared from 
behind the trees, and passing overhead, settled down 
into the reeds. By twos, threes, or hundreds in a 
flock, in straight, even lines of battle, or bent like 
the two sides of a triangle, or in long single file, their 
wings whistling in the still air, or producing reports 
like pop-guns as they flirted or touched one another 
—immense numbers moved over us. 
