284 



RECREA TION. 



But I had some compensation when we 

 went into the cold room to look at the 

 morning shooting: for this time there was 

 pleasure in listening to the comments. 



Telling the steward to give Spence the 

 lunch for to-morrow, an early call, break- 

 fast and start, I bade all good-night and 

 went to snatch a few hours' rest. 



South Hole was an accident and a dis- 

 covery. Only a knot of sand rising out of 

 the waters, 2 rods from the long outer key, 

 or ridge of sand, where, tired of buffeting 

 against the storm, Spence had one day 

 pulled up the skiff to wait until the wind 

 went down; and marking the passing geese 

 there and then capsizing the skiff, he had 

 crouched behind it and killed until even 

 that greedy, unappeasable, hardened old 

 hunter's heart had grown tired. 



Since then it had been hollowed out and 

 a blind built; but save the combination of 

 wind, weather and water, with low flying 

 clouds, it had brought naught but disap- 

 pointment that bit deeply and rankled sore- 

 ly, with more than polite and gentle com- 

 passionate and forgiving phrases for lost 

 labor and time, on the return to the Club 

 House. 



Therefore they laughed. 



In the darkness we staked the live wild 

 geese decoys, by a torch of pine knot and 

 lightwood; and the boys pulled out the 

 skiff and decoy box. 



Full 30 yards over toward the key we 

 staked the 3 live swans, and one of them 

 could "honk!" Then the quarry seldom 

 came within 20 or more yards of the decoys. 



That was indeed speculating; for there 

 is no game hunted so difficult to get within 

 range of as the wild swan. Naught but 

 chagrin over great flocks settling on the 

 shallows, so far away that we had to 

 frighten and raise them with the rifle, al- 

 though one was killed that way. 



In the gray dawn, it was a wild scene of 

 low flying clouds, shallow waters, lashed 

 into wild froth and yeast; patches of blue, 

 and many promises of squall and rain and 

 storm, with the moon emerging bright, and 

 great strips of stars in the intervals. 



As we realized the day and the weather, 

 we danced, shouted, and " Whoop-de- 

 doodle-doo-ed," until the live decoys, 

 floundering and straining at their thongs, 

 threatened to break their legs and brought 

 Spence and me to fair sense; although we 

 saluted the " governor of North Carolina," 

 and the " governor of South Carolina," 

 again and again; and wound up with the 

 c enate, the legislature, the common people, 

 ind — a dry bottle. 



To-day was sportsman's day at South 

 Hole; for the breeze was blowing a quar- 

 ter gale. Later it would freshen, and when 

 it broke — but then, there was time enough 

 to think of that, and work enough to pro- 

 vide for it when the time came. 



The drift and scud of the clouds and the 



spray and mist of the waters were gathered 

 by the wind and blown down and out of the 

 thick and rack, welcomed by the " honk," 

 " honk " of the decoys, the wild geese came 

 in irregular squads. Quick! quick! It's a 

 wing shot at the fowl driving against and 

 in the very teeth of the wind; and you 

 squarely cover them before they can rise 

 or turn aside as you spring to your feet and 

 " let 'em have it! " They are flying so fast, 

 and they come so near that you can hear 

 the spat of the shot striking the thick feath- 

 ers, and the strong " thud " of the hurtling, 

 stricken fowl, against the sand or the water, 

 is only equalled by the convulsive throb of 

 your heart as it seems to pump every drop 

 of blood in your veins! 



Bah! That shot should have killed an 

 ostrich; and, disgusted, you think of the 

 shot a wild goose can carry away from a 10 

 gauge gun. And then, by Jove! the ecstasy 

 of that long kill makes you pat your gun 

 as daintily as though she were " yo' gal in 

 Sunday dress," as Spence puts it. 



Around the blind, as the morning waned 

 and ran into noon, there must have been 

 over 20 dead fowl staked up to life-like 

 imitation of geese resting on the stand. 



I was noisily working at the lunch basket 

 when a grip at my collar pulling me back- 

 ward, sans ceremonie, and filling me with 

 wrath and the basket with wet sand, with 

 Spence on top of me and hissing in my 

 ears, ended all thoughts of lunch; for out 

 of the blast came the high soprano tremolo 

 of the swans; to which the old tenor, tug- 

 ging at his thong, was responding like a 

 very Lohengrin. 



"For mercy's sake, get off!" Spence 

 had put the gun in my hand but kept his 

 hand on my neck, and his weight lay heavily 

 on me. 



" Do you hear them swans dropping out 

 yonder? Let 'em come! Don't move;, 

 they're too far off! " We harked to every 

 sound; for the decoy swans were noisily 

 cluttering, and I feared to stealthily peer 

 through the brush. 



" Giminy crackers! Look at them geese! 

 There must be a million!" muttered 

 Spence. And indeed it seemed true, when, 

 with painful labor I screwed around to 

 look; but not for me; one swan for a thou- 

 sand geese. 



There they are — 5 of them — confound it, 

 just the other side of the decoys, and in 

 dead range. They might as well be in 

 Jericho. The old male swan stands stark 

 and stiff, with suspicious caution and vigi- 

 lance gleaming in his eyes and looking 

 straight at the blind. Can he see the muz- 

 zles of our guns in the gray brush? Or do 

 our eyes shine like his? Lower down! 

 Crouch and wait! 



More cries, and more geese coming. 

 What a pain to waste that sport! But the 

 swans are coming nearer and when I look 

 up, they are about 60 yards away. It may 



