308 AMERICAN GAME BIRD SHOOTING. 
other said that as soon as men became crazy at their success 
in duck-shooting it was customary to anchor them in the 
stream until their ardor cooled, or they became sane once 
more; but even this implied threat made no impression 
on him, and all he could say was: 
‘‘T don’t care a hang what you do to me; I must have 
bagged a dozen of those ducks myself, if I didn’t kill 
every one of them.” 
As this proved that he was hopelessly duck crazy, fur- 
ther hints were deemed to be unavailing, and he was left 
to the tender mercies of time and more flocks to restore 
him to his ordinary senses. Before he had concluded all 
his terpsichorean evolutions, the guide, who seemed to 
be staring at the clouds, sung out: 
‘‘Mark ducks, gemmen; mark river; here they come in 
piles.” 
On looking, sure enough they were in “ piles,” for 
thousands of them were rushing up the river. 
The first team was composed of black ducks, and we 
expected to make a haul among them, but just as we 
thought they would sink to our decoys they wheeled about 
and fled back as if they had been suddenly imbued with 
the idea that their wooden images were gross frauds and 
dangerous acquaintances. The teams behind them did 
not display such a suspicious nature, however, for they 
swept down to our decoys in the most familiar manner, 
but before many of them could settle, the ten barrels 
again blazed forth almost simultaneously, and their 
shower of lead must have brought down thirty or forty 
mallards and canvas-backs. Several were only wounded, 
and as they tried to flutter away we had an opportunity 
of trying our accuracy at shooting single birds. Before 
the last of them was killed, another mass of feathers, 
comprising ducks of several species, came sweeping to- 
wards us, producing a noise like the whistling roar of an 
approaching whirlwind, and as they came fluttering and 
