348 DUCK SHOOTING. 



reach for my gun, and down comes the duck with a 

 s; lash. Dan is overboard attending to business, and 

 ^u.ckly retrieves the birds. Nice fat fellows they are. 

 Here comes a straggler returning through the mist. 

 Jim has his eye upon him and makes a very creditable 

 kill. Dan splashes off through the weeds and water 

 and retrieves, with the duck held firmly in his mouth. 

 He climbs into the boat, and with muddy feet and drip- 

 ping hide carefully squats upon the middle seat, where 

 somebody will have to sit at the oars. Dan never neg- 

 lected to place one or more of his feet on that seat 

 every time he entered the boat, provided they were wet 

 or muddy. Jim and I argued with him earnestly and 

 often against this weakness, and now and then with 

 the broad end of the paddle, but all to no purpose. So 

 after a bit I would laugh when it came Jim's time to 

 occupy the muddy seat, and Jim would giggle when I 

 had to make a blotter of myself. 



Back down the stream we turn to the left and add 

 another duck to our string. The fog is lifting now, a 

 light breeze swaying the rice and cat-tails. The black- 

 birds are awake, chattering over their breakfast and 

 making sociable visits from one flock to another. Clear 

 as a tinkling bell comes the pink-pink of the reed birds. 

 A tall crane stands out in the water across the creek, 

 foraging for his morning lunch. I produce my pipe 

 and light up, while Jim makes himself useful at the 

 oars. Half a mile up the creek we strike the mouth of 

 another stream that zig-zags across the marsh. I take 

 the post of honor this time. We are not fairly into the 



