Duck-sbooting 23 



live decoys have given up getting excited. Stories 

 of when ducks were thick and a man did business 

 all day, any day, begin to get monotonous. It is 

 past noon, and the only result of the morning on 

 Brant Pond is an appetite. We are beginning 

 to discuss pulling up, but finally comes a break: 

 a sudden sharp quack from our tame duck starts 

 the other two live decoys. A single black duck 

 is heading for the blind, way up, but not too high 

 for a shot. He comes straight overhead and gets 

 two barrels, one in the neck ; the next second he 

 smashes through the grass, our first bird. Soon 

 a flock of mallard appear in front ; they answer 

 the decoys, circle once, then set their wings and 

 come. One lights, three more hover close, four 

 shots, two drop ; the third sags off, hard hit. The 

 next arrivals are two pintail ; the white breasts and 

 long necks mark them at a distance ; they plunge 

 in to the stool, but spring high as we rise to shoot, 

 and both shots go underneath. For an hour a 

 little flight kept up, mostly mallard and black 

 duck. Three black duck drop in across the pond 

 and swim up to the decoys. These are the last. 

 The shot is a sunset gun. Fifteen ducks in all. 

 As we leave the marsh, whistling wings proclaim 

 beginning dusk. All overhead seems ducks ; 

 now and then quacks from the long grass mark 

 the resting-place of mallard. The night residents 

 of Brant Pond have come. My first day's duck- 



