2»2 



RECREA TION. 



Before the coming day, the gleaming 

 light was fading and the white shaft on 

 Bodie's island was betraying its existence 

 in a gaunt grayish shape. 



Noisier and shriller and echoing plaint- 

 ively in the early hour were the cries of the 

 swan, with the deeper calls of the geese 

 forming an undertone; while the curious 

 muffled rattle, hardly distinguishable, from 

 the swash of the waves on the flaps of the 

 blind and the sides of the skiff, caused 

 Spence to sing out 



" That's the red heads a-wing." 



I stepped on the battery, and, with re- 

 fraining good-byes, the skiff sailed away. 



In the soft light between me and the 

 East the beach was assuming form and 

 showing the long barrier that shuts the 

 placid waters of the sound from the tur- 

 bulence of the ocean, while the gleaming 

 stretches were the ponds and pools on the 

 keys, reflecting the light where, later, I 

 should shoot shore birds until the fancy 

 shot, and not the bag, was the measure of 

 sport. 



On the other side, toward the setting sun, 

 only the slender tapering masts of the 

 Brant showed where the yacht swung at 

 anchor. Afar I saw the blowy, smoky 

 masses on the horizon's rim that at first 

 suggested the cloud drift before a squall; 

 but an uplifted hand, against which not 

 even a zephyr blew its breath, told me the 

 wind was coming from the Northwest and 

 that the water fowl were already in motion, 

 in the early breeze blowing out there. 



When brr-brr-swrr sang around me and 

 was gone, and while I had been standing 

 there dreaming, the first flight of water 

 fowl, allured by the decoys, had passed, and 

 the first shot of the day was lost. 



What is that murmur coming over the 

 water? Now it is like the cooing of the 

 cock-dove, or the strutful tones of the 

 wood-pigeon, and now it is like the muf- 

 fled drum of the ruffed grouse. Now it is 

 the rush and murmur of the gale under the 

 eaves, and around the gables; and now it 

 is the fanning of countless wings of water 

 fowl, beating the air, and it passes over the 

 blind with a sough of the wind that takes 

 a cool head, a steady hand and a quick eye 

 to make both barrels bark in its midst, with 

 splashes on the water rising over the roar 

 of the gun, telling of arrested flights and 

 hurtling plunges to death. 



Now ready for another, and raising my 

 head I saw 2 dim, hazy masses to the 

 Southward which, in the clear atmosphere, 

 looked like flying clouds; but they were 

 moving against the wind, and which way 

 would they pass — over me or far off? Not 

 long either would it take to pass over the 

 blind if they were moving my way. The 

 guns were ready and I began to call the 

 ducks with that curiously muffled rattle, 

 made by the roll of the tongue against the 

 roof of the mouth. Down the wind went 



the sound, and on went the call. How low 

 they were flying! I feared they would 

 light; but onward they came, straight for 

 the decoys, and behind me the renegade 

 ducks were quacking and flapping their 

 wings as if washing, and probably all 

 knowing they were luring the flying mass 

 to their doom. 



Ready for the leap to my feet for a stand- 

 ing shot. The flock is coming against the 

 wind. They will divide and rise fast — all 

 too fast — when they see the battery. Now it 

 is the other roll of the rattle, and " up and 

 at 'em." Both barrels to the left, and now 

 drop the one gun and up with the other. 

 A quick wheel and both barrels to the right 

 at the fleeing, frightened flock and they are 

 gone in the distance. The right hand shot 

 is always best saved for the right handed 

 man. Two I certainly got; but who in 

 that intense excitement can note how many 

 fall, or what success follows the aim in the 

 mental intoxication of the moment, when 

 the glance sweeps down the barrel and the 

 flash of the gun follows the rapid flight of 

 the quarry fleeing from death. 



Again and again, as I lay on my back, 

 after the shot, with the glow of the sport 

 running through me, in the soft warmth of 

 the December sunshine, the balmy drowsi- 

 ness of the Carolina noon, rocked by the 

 motion of the waters, I forgot the quarry 

 and the sport and let my mind drift whither 

 it would, perversely to woodland and 

 whence not. 



From the satisfaction of repletion, back- 

 ward to the hour of hunger and want, is all 

 within the compass of an hour. The humor 

 of both is akin. It is the sweep of thought 

 backward to the start from New York, on 

 the Roanoke. The old officers who were 

 in charge of her as Patronym which, in the 

 days of '60 had been seized by the Virgin- 

 ians and the name loyally changed to Pat- 

 rick Henry, knew me as a boy. They also 

 knew my forefathers. Hence they granted 

 me the privileges of the pilot house where 

 I got me at daylight. Then I saw the sky- 

 ward flight of geese, on their way to 

 Roanoke; and ducks and ducks and ducks 

 — on every wave — passing over the pilot 

 house; crossing the bows within gunshot, 

 until it made me waver whether I were not 

 journeying too far. 



The steward served a French dejeuner at 

 sunrise, and that was typical of the Old 

 Dominion line — a synonym of vigilant war- 

 fare, comfort and pleasure of coast line 

 travel. Eh, Llewellyn of the Roanoke! 



That flock may, as fledglings, have fled 

 from my birch bark canoe on Tchitagama 

 waters, in the frozen North; and the brant 

 sweeping over me may have hidden in the 

 sedges on Paradise river, in Labrador, when 

 the dory passed by. 



Thus the morning passed until I heard 

 the Captain call, and the skiff ranged along- 

 side the blind. 



