98 SOBAPSQUA 



Immense flocks of ducks used to cruise along 

 the shores and come out on the shelving rocks, 

 sometimes in very dangerous places, where am- 

 bushed gunners lay in wait to rake the huddled 

 throng with a charge of BB shot. In some cases a 

 dozen or more were killed by a single discharge. 

 Frank Brady got eighteen with two barrels. Old 

 Justin Cyr killed as many with one discharge of 

 his ancient Queen's arm. This was very unsports- 

 manlike, and in no wise to be compared with the 

 exploits of men who kill a hundred ducks on the 

 wing in a day's shooting and are still unsatisfied. 

 Our pot-hunters fired but one shot and went home 

 quite content with the result, and from year to 

 year there was no noticeable decrease in the num- 

 bers of waterfowl till the generation of "true 

 sportsmen" with improved weapons began to 

 multiply. 



It is not to be denied that there is a degree of 

 excitement in the stealthy approach to a flock of 

 wary, dusky ducks, or in lying in wait, silent and 

 motionless, for them to swim within range, mean- 

 while observing the autumnal beauty of earth and 

 sky out of the corners of one's eyes, sniffing the 

 fragrant odor of ripe leaves, and listening to the 

 pulse of lazy ripples, and undeniably there is a 

 satisfaction in the successful shot. Nevertheless 

 it was pot-hunting that one should blush with 

 shame for having indulged in, yet somehow I do 



