532 DUCK SHOOTING. 



ing of ducks, and a chorus of squawks from frightened 

 decoys, is the result. Lucky is the man who can single 

 out his bird and kill with the left barrel. I missed 

 clean, and am too busy shooting at cripples with the 

 pump gun to see what you are about. 



The fusillade is over, and we count eight dead ducks. 

 Two only have flown away, besides the three buffle- 

 heads, while one is swimming some 200 yards out. 



Slaughter, mere butchery, I hear some one say. But 

 come with me and watch them, possibly four morn- 

 ings, your eyes glued to sky and water, with nothing 

 but a meager ruddy duck to reward your patience. 

 Then, when the longed-for moment arrives, you will 

 grasp your trusty 8-gauge with as much pride as a 

 quail shooter his light 16. 



We have collected in all nine plump black ducks, 

 fresh from their summer home, and with few excep- 

 tions as finely flavored as any bird that swims. 



You will scarcely believe that we have been in the 

 stand two hours. Game was in sight nearly all the 

 time, and now that the excitement is over we remem- 

 ber that we are hungry, and shouldering our game, 

 tramp proudly back to breakfast. 



BREEDING WILDFOWL. 



It is only within a very few years that breeding wild 

 geese and ducks has been seriously attempted. At 

 present, however, a number of persons are very much 



