Picked from tbe Prairie Province 255 



Bluebills in flocks of all sizes, and, at irregular 

 intervals, redheads, came whizzing along to hover 

 above the decoys and receive a double salute, and 

 as I realized that there were unlimited numbers of 

 fowl, I began a selection process in which only rather 

 difficult shots counted. Even then, I had about all I 

 could attend to. " More shell," remarked Batteese, 

 as he passed a second box of twenty-five. " Plain- 

 tee more," he explained as he proceeded to tear 

 open a third box of the half-dozen beside him. 

 He knew that the main flight was yet to come, 

 and that three hundred shells were none too many 

 for a typical day. His wild blood craved slaughter, 

 and if ten thousand fowl could be killed, so much 

 the better. But I have notions of my own on that 

 question. 



Certainly there was plenty of variety. Now it 

 was bluebill, then redhead, then, with a hollow roar, 

 a dozen swift canvasbacks ; then the measured win- 

 nowing of a pair of mallard, the steamy hiss of the 

 teal's bullet flight; the sounding hum of shovel- 

 lers; and through it all the silent black-and-white 

 flickering action of pretty little huffle-heads and 

 mergansers. And there was so much of it that 

 before noon I was both ready to eat and to stop 

 shooting for the day. So the gun was laid aside 

 and we dawdled over the food, heedless of the rush- 

 ing wings audible every few minutes. 



" You go home ? " he blurted out, in his astonish- 

 ment for once speaking rapidly, and I nodded. He 

 said never a word, but his face appeared to take on a 

 darker shade. The canoe was freed from her reedy 

 tethers, the decoys were lifted, and he began his quest 



