there are other ways of hunting birds," he said. "And when you 

 get the time, I'd like to show you how it goes. This thing calls 

 for a canoe and maybe quite a walk at the day's end. But," he 

 said, "I'll bet you'll like it!" 



I couldn't get the time to try the new way until the next morn- 

 ing when sunrise found us on the Manistee, one of Michigan's 

 finest trout streams. Charlie was in the stern, his own unloaded 

 gun at his feet. I was in the bow, my loaded double across my 

 knees. It was October. Soft maple flared its crimson at us above 

 the cedars. The sky was as brittle blue as a robin's egg. Small 

 jackpines gave a shadowy undertone to the fall brilliance, and 

 the air was something you could drink. 



"Around the next bend," said Charlie, who was giving the 

 canoe no more than steerageway, "are wild grapevines. It's ten 

 to one a bird will be feeding there. You try to take him. But," 



