WINTER PICTURES 233 



back, pressed down between the narrow sides, the 

 muzzle of my gun resting upon my toe and its stock 

 upon my stomach, waiting for the silly ducks to 

 come. I was rather in hopes they would not come, 

 for I felt pretty certain that I could not get up 

 promptly in such narrow quarters and deliver my 

 shot with any precision. As nothing could be seen, 

 and as it was very still, it was a good time to listen 

 again. I was virtually under water, and in a good 

 medium for the transmission of sounds. The bark- 

 ing of dogs on the Maryland shore was quite audi- 

 ble, and I heard with great distinctness a Maryland 

 lass call some one to breakfast. They were astir 

 up at Mount Vernon, too, though the fog hid them 

 from view. I heard the mocking or Carolina wren 

 alongshore calling quite plainly the words a George- 

 town poet has put in his mouth, — " Sweetheart, 

 sweetheart, sweet ! " Presently I heard the whistle 

 of approaching wings, and a solitary duck alighted 

 back of me over my right shoulder, — just the most 

 awkward position for me she could have assumed. 

 I raised my head a little, and skimmed the water 

 with my eye. The duck was swimming about just 

 beyond the decoys, apparently apprehensive that 

 she was intruding upon the sodety of her betters. 

 She would approach a little, and then, as the stiff, 

 aristocratic decoys made no sign of welcome or rec- 

 ognition, she would sidle off again. "Who are 

 they, that they should hold themselves so loftily 

 and never condescend to notice a forlorn duck ? " I 

 imagined her saying. Should I spring up and show 



