WINTER PICTURES 225 



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 Captain would perhaps first strike the water 

 as he came out in the morning to take a turn up and 

 down his long piazza, the Club had formerly had a 

 "blind," but the ice of a few weeks before our visit 

 had carried it away. A little lower down, and in 

 full view from his bedroom window, was the place 

 where the shooting from the boxes was usually 

 done. 



The duck is an early bird, and not much given 

 to wandering about in the afternoon; hence it was 

 thought not worth while to put out the decoys till 

 the next morning. We would spend the afternoon 

 roaming inland in quest of quail, or rabbits, or 

 turkeys (for a brood of the last were known to lurk 

 about the woods back there). It was a delightful 

 afternoon's tramp through oak woods, pine barrens, 

 and half-wild fields. We flushed several quail that 

 the dog should have pointed, and put a rabbit to 

 rout by a well-directed broadside, but brought no 

 game to camp. We kicked about an old bushy 

 clearing, where my friends had shot a wild turkey 



