THE WHISTLER 345 
travel ninety miles an hour. For my part I 
have a very high regard for Mr. Whistler’s 
abilities, both of wing and wit. I have seen 
him outrun many a charge of shot, and I know 
of no waterfowl so crafty except a black duck. 
The New England gunner kills most of his 
Whistlers during the coldest weather of the 
year when not only the fresh waters are closed 
but the ice has formed solidly in the bays and 
arms of the sea, leaving only a breathing hole 
here and there where the swift currents will not 
be held in the grip of winter. The gunner, 
dressed in a white suit,—even his gun barrels 
chalked,—lies flat upon the snow-covered ice at 
the edge of some such an opening, behind a 
slight blind of ice cakes, or in his float dragged 
over the floe and launched upon the water 
within. He places decoys at the proper dis- 
tances, arranging them in the water and along 
the edge of the ice, and takes what his fortune 
may send him in the way of sport. 
The Whistler is said not to decoy well, but 
that has not been my experience. I do not 
know a more certain method of bringing a flock 
of these ducks to the’ decoys on a whistlerless 
morning than for the sportsman to lay down his 
