344 DUCK SHOOTING. 



to meet a row of whitecaps which dashed an icy spray in 

 our faces, now pulling straight away, now veering 

 quickly to escape a sunken log or projecting ice ledge. 

 We scarcely knew our familiar stream in its changed 

 appearance. Sometimes we ran through the woods for 

 miles without knowing where we were. 



The black and angry clouds, the ice fields, the strange 

 sounds in the woods and the swiftly moving vistas of 

 the ever-changing, restless river made up an effect 

 which will not soon pass away. It was novel, it was 

 glorious, this boating with the mercury below zero and 

 the river narrowing slowly. Would I have changed 

 my uneasy seat in this winter panorama to hunt any 

 other game on foot or on horseback, or play any fish 

 beside a summer pool? By no means. Such fascina- 

 tion I have never known. 



It was the last day of the season and all the ducks in 

 the country were crowded along that narrow channel, 

 and no one else was there to molest or make afraid. 



Whang! went Virgil's gun. *T got that old slinker 

 that time," said he. Sure enough. We could see his 

 red feet paddling against the transparent ice as he 

 vainly tried to dive. We had learned to believe it as 

 honorable to shoot a duck diving as one flying. 



At noon we landed, stretched our limbs and ate our 

 frozen lunch. We had now nearly as many ducks as 

 we thought it honorable to take. I realized that if we 

 would catch the evening train we must hasten. So 

 cautioning Virgil not to shoot any more, I took the 

 oars, and we flew down stream at a lively rate. Run- 



