A LETTER FROM MR. WOOD DUCK. 



JOHN BOYD. 



Dear Recreationists: I'm only a wild 

 duck. A Wood Duck some people call me, 

 because I like to build my nest in a tree, as 

 do some of my cousins. Old fogies, calling 

 themselves Ornithologists, say my name is 

 Aix sponsa, which means " the bride " ; but 

 I don't know where they got that. We 

 never hear it among ourselves, although I 

 cannot say but we deserve the title. 



We can perch on trees, as other birds do, 

 without being the least tired, and I do this 

 every day when my wife is looking after the 



it when my wife and I were feeding the 

 others. I will also show you how we carry 

 our little ones from the nest to the water, 

 and back again, and if the visitors are will- 

 ing to stay until dusk we will put the babies 

 to bed, so that all may see us. 



Our nest was made by Daddy Wood- 

 pecker. He left it for us because we 

 couldn't scoop one out for ourselves. That 

 was kind of him, now wasn't it? I wish we 

 could stay near our nesting place all the 

 year round; we make so many friends 



A PAIR OF WOOD DUCKS. 



See page 7. 



nest and the eggs. Some people would have 

 you believe I leave my wife alone with these 

 duties; but I do nothing of the sort. She is 

 a good little body, and thinks no one can 

 do the work like herself; so she insists on 

 doing it all, and I can only look on — hen- 

 pecked I believe you folks call it. I wouldn't 

 desert her like that. Don't ever think it. 



When our young come out of the shells 

 it keeps both of us busy to keep them out 

 of mischief and danger. And talking about 

 danger, I wish you would tell people to 

 leave their guns at home when they come 

 out our way. We don't like them, and can't 

 feel comfortable while they're in sight. If 

 you could only get them to do this, I 

 wouldn't mind letting them see our little 

 family of 12. We had 13, but one was car- 

 ried away by a fish hawk, who pounced on 



whom we like, and our stay of 5 months 

 seems so short. We would if we could, but 

 the winters are so cold, - id we are not 

 hardy, like the majority of our cousins. 



Tell that man who runs Recreation that 

 we all love him so much for calling down 

 those hogs who hunt and kill us, and that if 

 he wants to know more about us, we will 

 gather around him and show off; for we 

 know he has a good heart and that he 

 wouldn't hurt us, or let any one else do so. 



Tell the photographer he may come and 

 take our picture, as often as he likes; and 

 that we will group and pose for him, and 

 look our prettiest. But please don't let 

 that cruel gunner know where we are. 



Well, Good-by. Oh-eek, Oh-eek. I see 

 one of those gun cranks coming now. Oh- 

 eek. Oh-eek. 



