pond known to be the home of a few flocks of young Ducks is visited by two or three men with one or 

 more dogs, either pointers or setters, and beginning at one end they raid the premises, splashing and 

 beating the lilies and wild grass which conceal much of the surface of the water. This greatly frightens 

 the young Ducks, causing them to leave the water and hide in the thick grass which abounds around the 

 border of the pond. Having gone over as much space as desired, the dogs are taken into the vegetation 

 along the shore and commanded to hunt. A point is soon made and the hiding Duckling, scared half to 

 death, is picked up from under the dog's nose and killed. Point after point is made in quick succession, 

 and Duck after Duck is added to the bag. A retriever properly trained will pick them out from their 

 concealment and deliver them in his mouth to his master. Two men and two o-ood doss can take a 

 great many Whippers in this way in July and August, but no one but the veriest pot-hunter would resort 

 to such means. The true sportsman is content to wait for the full growth of the wing feathers, for the 

 beautiful fall months of September and October. At this time the birds are strong, vigorous flyers, having 

 for some weeks practiced daily the use of their pinions. As soon as old enough for successful flight, they 

 leave the pond in which they were reared, early in the morning, under the guidance of their parents or 

 parent, to feed upon wheat in a neighboring field, and having finished their repast instead of returning 

 to the pond, they frequent some river or creek in the vicinity, where they amuse themselves in shady 

 nooks upon an overhanging branch or half submerged log, or by paddling about in a sleepy manner. 

 About one or two o'clock in the afternoon they again visit the wheat stacks, but soon return to the delightful 

 shade of the river. Again in the evening they betake themselves to their feeding grounds; at this time 

 the largest meal of the day is devoured. If unmolested they eat voraciously until sundown, when they are 

 literally stuffed with wheat and ready to return to the pond left in the morning. Day after day the family 

 run through this routine of life, each day extending their journey and seeking new feeding grounds as the 

 old become dangerous or exhausted, until destroyed by the hunter or driven south by the cold. 



It is in September that the finest shooting is afforded. Early in the season, before they have been 

 frightened much by the hunter, they come into the ponds in large flocks, fat, delicious young birds, with 

 crops packed with wheat, or sweet acorns, contented, perhaps even happy, they come leisurely sailing 

 into the roost. But a fatal surprise is in wait for them, several hunters are concealed in the tall grass, 

 and before the Ducks are aware of danger the death dealing sixes from several guns along the line have 

 decimated their number and frightened the uninjured so that the flock is broken, perhaps for the first 

 time. Dazed, terror-stricken, they, singly and in pairs, fly about the pond seeking to alight or to reform 

 into a flock. It is now that the best shooting is obtained. The sun has already gone down, but there 

 is a delightful twilight, a clear soft yellow-red tint illumines the whole western sky, and upon this back- 

 ground the gunner can shoot until the east is totally dark. 



Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! echoes along the pond, and again and again in rapid succession 

 the guns are discharged, until the barrels fairly burn the hands that hold them. Twilight is fast fading 

 into night, but the Ducks increase in numbers with the darkness, and fly so close you can almost strike 

 them with the gun, too close to shoot, they may alight right at your feet and refuse to be walked up. With 

 the departing ray of twilight the last Ducks settle, and now all is still and quiet. You give attention to 

 your retriever, good dog, you had entirely forgotten him in the excitement of the past few minutes, but 

 he has done his work and has deposited near by a goodly number of Ducks, others lie dead in marked 

 S£>ots, but the thick cover, the soft mud, and mossy water reaching to your waist, together with the 

 darkness forbid your hunting, so pocketing the retrieved birds you slowly pick your way to shore. 



This is called sport. The men engaged in it are called " sportsmen." And I have considered myself 

 as one enjoying the former as well as belonging to the latter, still there is no denial, it is downright 

 cruelty, premeditated — Duck murder, 



251 



