IN LETTERS OF GOLD. 



R. B. BUCKHAM. 



The approach of spring brings with it 

 once more the old longing for field and 

 cover, and for some days I have devoted 

 my leisure moments to preparing for the 

 opening of the snipe shooting season ; 

 loading fresh ammunition, unpacking the 

 crisp, brown canvas suits from the cam- 

 phor-scented chests, where they have " hi- 

 bernated " through trie long winter ; over- 

 hauling our various traps, and carefully 

 removing the guns from their chamois skin 

 cases. 



I find my double-barrel hammerless gun 

 in perfect condition. Dear old partner! 

 As I turn it over and glance along its 

 graceful barrels, and at its inlaid stock, 

 what reminiscences it recalls! How well I 

 remember our first outing together. 



At one time, my brother Eben and I 

 were engaged in the practice of the law, 

 in a small but thriving city on the shores 

 of one of the Great Lakes. Six miles to 

 the South of us stretched away Catlin's 

 Bay, whose indented shores and well 

 wooded promontories offered irresistible 

 attractions for the ducks. During the mi- 

 grating seasons, they were to be seen flying 

 this way and that, or feeding in the 

 marshes at the foot of the bay where Piatt 

 creek enters it. Taken all in all, this bay 

 was one of the best ducking grounds it has 

 ever been my good fortune to hunt over, 

 and it was always a wonder to me it was 

 not oftener visited by sportsmen. But if 

 others did not improve their opportunities, 

 we certainly did, and many a glorious out- 

 ing did we have on that bay. 



Late in the fall of 18 — , it became neces- 

 sary for me to go to Washington, to ap- 

 pear in a case for one of our clients, then 

 pending before the supreme court. On the 

 way home, thinking it but meet I should 

 indulge myself in some innocent luxury, 

 I stopped over in New York; and as ham- 

 merless guns had just then come into 

 vogue, selected the best one money could 

 buy, and a handsome one it was, too. 



Having reached home, I placed it in a 

 conspicuous place in the dining-room, 

 and awaited my brother's return from the 

 office. As I expected his quick eye soon 

 caught the gleam of its shining barrels. 



"Hello! What's this? A new gun; 

 isn't it a beauty! " 



'Yes; to-morrow is Saturday. The bay 

 has not frozen yet and ducks are reported 

 flying Southward. We must manage to get 

 away to try it." 



The day dawned crisp and clear, with a 

 brisk North wind blowing; and with the 

 Fates pronouncing such a benediction we 

 could not but consider ourselves fur- 

 loughed from our tasks, so hastened to our 

 boat; having first closed the office door be- 



hind us and carefully pinned on it the usual 

 sign displayed on such occasions, — 



"OUT OF TOWN FOR THE DAY." 



Every one of our clients knew well 

 enough what-that sign meant; and none of 

 them was ever known to grumble at find- 

 ing it there, either. Forsooth, they had 

 good reason to be indulgent, for many a fat 

 grouse and juicy duck have they eaten, as 

 a recompense for any inconvenience they 

 may have suffered from our absence. 



Having tumbled our belongings aboard, 

 we set sail for the foot of the bay. The 

 stiff breeze carried us along at a goodly 

 pace, and we could but sing the praises of 

 our little craft as we sped along. She was 

 a row-boat, fitted with folding centre-board 

 and cat-rigged sail. To my mind, no boat 

 is better fitted for lakes and ponds. While 

 the wind favors, it is an excellent sailing 

 craft, and in a calm, a transformation from 

 sail-boat to row-boat is the work of but a 

 moment. » 



The voyage to the foot of the bay was 

 accomplished without incident worthy of 

 note. Ducks were numerous, flying far up 

 against the sky, but none came within 

 range. As we ploughed with our momen- 

 tum through the wide expanse of rushes 

 into the mouth of the creek, however, we 

 were suddenly surrounded by a great white 

 cloud; a mass of waving, snowy wings. We , 

 had unexpectedly run into a flock of geese, 

 feeding there tiear the rushes, and they 

 were rising right and left in their clumsy 

 flight. It was a sight long to be remem- 

 bered. 



" Give it to 'em," shouted my brother, 

 who was in the bow of the boat, and seiz- 

 ing his heavy Greener, he set the example 

 by making a skilful double. 



Instantly the light little hammerless 

 came to my shoulder, and its sharp, whip- 

 like reports rang out, followed by a splash 

 in the water. Slipping in another shell, 

 Containing No. 2 shot. I took quick aim at 

 a clumsy fellow wabbling away to the 

 right, and pulled. 



"Bravo! Good for little spit-fire! You 

 got him!" cried Eben, in admiration. 

 " That was a good shot, I tell you! " And 

 it was, for the little gun had proved deadly 

 at fully 50 yards. 



Having picked up the geese, we continued 

 on up the creek. The sail was taken down, 

 the centre-board drawn up and the paddle 

 resorted to, for we were determined to 

 avoid all noise, and did not even trust to 

 the oars. Their continual drip drip, is au- 

 dible for some distance, but the paddle, 

 handled after the fashion of the Adiron- 

 dack guides, and never removed from the 

 water, is absolutely noiseless. 



398 



