Duck-sbooting 2 1 



morning we drift down the channel into the bay. 

 In places the little craft passes close to the shore, 

 and every now and then the clamorous quacking 

 of ducks, startled by the boat's dim outline, breaks 

 on the air. The decoys in the crate quack back ; 

 presently a near-by honk tells of geese, and soon 

 we see the dark line just rising from the surface 

 of a pond close by, warned by the first streaks 

 of light that it is leaving time. Now the bay 

 broadens, and with a fresher breeze the small boat 

 pegs along toward the island, the faint outline of 

 which appears in front. Whistling wings, high 

 overhead, are heard, and a flock of red-head in 

 wavy line pass to their feeding-grounds farther 

 south ; soon another and several, keeping the 

 same course. These sights and others make us 

 yearn for Brant Pond; it is still a mile or more 

 away; the boat seems just creeping. The law 

 fixes the shooting hours as between sunrise and 

 sunset, and the sun is not yet up. As we reach 

 the marsh, a narrow channel into the grass lies 

 just ahead, and through this our craft is pushed. 

 It broadens into Brant Pond, and presently we 

 find ourselves on the inner shore, close to the 

 blind. A lone flock of black duck still linger 

 well out of reach across the pond, watch proceed- 

 ings a minute, and then leave. We carry our 

 guns and shells to a jutting point where a clump 

 of high grass marks the blind. A flat plank on 



