MALLARD TIMBER SHOOTING. 107 



CHAPTER IX. 



MALLARD TIMBER SHOOTING. 



ALONG the rivers in the West, duck shooters look 

 ahead with fond anticipations of approaching spring, 

 with its annual overflows, its complete submersion of low- 

 lands, for in such places, among the tall and stately trees, 

 in the murmuring, gurgling overflow, mallards had rather 

 be in this season than in any other place. The hunter 

 knows this, and as the short days of winter glide gradu- 

 ally away, from beneath the hidden place from out its 

 case or box his favorite gun is brought. With tender 

 solicitude he fondly handles it, carefully looks through 

 the shining barrels, thoughtfully feels the true springs 

 of the lock as he raises the hammers, and then carefully 

 lowers them ; or, if a hammerless, with outward indiffer- 

 ence he slides back and forth the safety catch. He won- 

 ders if he has forgotten his old time skill, if lack of practice 

 has dulled his eye, or stiffened or made less supple his 

 arms, or his muscles ; he looks out the window with 

 thoughtful mien, and his eye sees the deep black on the 

 top of his neighbor's chimney, an arrow on the topmost 

 crest of the house, some filagree work in distinct relief. 

 He brings his gun to shoulder, glances over the rib, and 

 then, right in front of the muzzle, accurately, he sees the 

 object covered by the sighted gun. With a grim smile 

 of satisfaction he lowers the gun, then raises it again 

 and again, each time his faultless aim, his faithful arm 



