Ducks booting 33 



Long Island has always been a resort for 

 battery shooting, more especially toward the east- 

 ern end of Great South Bay. It was here, several 

 years ago, a party of us enjoyed a good day's 

 shooting. We reached Bellport late in the after- 

 noon, and went aboard a small sloop. There was 

 a fair wind, and presently we found ourselves 

 drifting at a rapid rate toward the outer beach. 

 The change from city life to Great South Bay was 

 a pleasing one, and as the chill of an October even- 

 ing began to be marked on the water by the last 

 glittering of sunset, we drew on our coats and 

 jerseys. The bay was hardly ruffled by the faint 

 breeze, yet the way oyster stakes disappeared be- 

 hind indicated that a tide was running with us. 

 As the dark line of ocean beach looms up, on all 

 sides jutting points of sedge and grass, with out- 

 lying marshy islands, bring up thoughts of ducks. 

 The keel grates and we anchor. A small boat 

 is ready, and an old man pushes us ashore. It 

 is only a step to the little weather-beaten shanty 

 almost hidden among the dunes, in which a 

 single room contains around its walls a tier of 

 bunks. In one end a fireplace, blazing with dry 

 driftwood, lights everything about. A big bowl 

 on the table steams with oyster broth, and Uncle 

 Dan can't ladle it out fast enough. Then some 

 clam fritters and one cup of coffee all around. 

 I think, with all the excitement and expectation 



