358 FEATHERED GAME 
marsh. Landward the only indication of bird 
life is the scream of the jay or the distant caw- 
ing of the crows, southward bound. Winter is 
close at hand. There is a sting in the wind, a 
nip in the air, and the fingers are numb and blue 
as they hold the gun barrels. But out on the 
water, careless of wind or wave, rides a flock of 
‘‘Squaws’’ making always a merry clatter. 
Ever and anon some of their number rise 
against the breeze to dart off at lightning speed, 
apparently in the mere enjoyment of flight, for, 
circling a half a mile about, they plump down 
again among their comrades, all the time noisily 
calling to each other. We might almost say 
they are the only song birds among the ducks, 
for really their notes are very pleasant to hear 
and quite musical in comparison with the usual 
vocal production of the family. 
Undisturbed they have made holiday and 
raised their broods during the short Arctic 
summer, but now, driven by snow and ice from 
these pleasant quarters, they bring their young- 
sters southward along the coasts of New Eng- 
land and the Middle Atlantic States for the 
winter, dwelling offshore from the St. Lawrence 
to the Potomac. 
