64 Hunting Trips of a Ranchman 



One of the pleasantest times of camping out is 

 the period immediately after supper, when the hunt 

 ers lie in the blaze of the firelight, talking over 

 what they have done during the day and making 

 their plans for the morrow. And how soundly a 

 man who has worked hard sleeps in the open, none 

 but he who has tried it knows. 



Before we had risen in the morning, when the 

 blackness of the night had barely changed to gray, 

 we were roused by the whistle of wings, as a flock 

 of ducks flew by along the course of the stream, 

 and lit in the water just above the camp. Some 

 kinds of ducks in lighting strike the water with 

 their tails first, and skitter along the surface for 

 a few feet before settling down. Lying in our 

 blankets we could plainly hear all the motions: 

 first of all, the whistle whistle of their wings; 

 then a long-drawn splash-h-h plump; and then 

 a low, conversational quacking. It was too dark 

 to shoot, but we got up and ready, and strolled 

 down along the brink of the river opposite where 

 we could hear them; and as soon as we could see 

 we gave them four barrels and picked up half a 

 dozen scaup-ducks. Breakfast was not yet ready, 

 and we took a turn out on the prairie before com 

 ing back to the wagon. In a small pool, down in 

 a hollow, were a couple of little dipper ducks or 

 buffle-heads; they rose slowly against the wind, 

 and offered such fair marks that it was out of the 

 question to miss them. 



The evening before we had lain among the reeds 



