WINTER PICTURES 



one to describe a long strip of water thickly planted 

 with them. One of my friends was a member of 

 the Washington and Mount Vernon Ducking Club, 

 which has its camp and fixtures just below the 

 Mount Vernon landing ; he was an old ducker. 

 For my part, I had never killed a duck, except 

 with an axe, nor have I yet. 



We made our way along the beach from the 

 landing, over piles of driftwood, and soon reac'ied 

 the quarters, a substantial building, fitted up with 

 a stove, bunks, chairs, a table, culinary utensils, 

 crockery, etc., with one corner piled full of decoys. 

 There were boats to row in and boxes to shoot 

 from, and I felt sure we should have a pleasant 

 time, whether we got any ducks or not. The weather 

 improved hourly, till in the afternoon a well-defined 

 installment of the Indian summer, that had been 

 delayed somewhere, settled down upon the scene ; 

 this lasted during our stay of two days. The river 

 was placid, even glassy, the air richly and deeply 

 toned with haze, and the sun that of the mellowest 

 October. "The fairer the weather, the fewer the 

 ducks," said one of my companions. "But this is 

 better than ducks," I thought, and prayed that it 

 might last. 



Then there was something pleasing to the fancy 



in being so near to Mount Vernon. It formed a 



sort of rich, historic background to our flitting and 



trivial experiences. Just where the eye of the great 



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