WHERE THE WILD DUCK QUACKS. 



GEORCxE MCADAM. 



You may talk about your fishing, 

 Where the water boils a-swishing, 

 And of going home with nothing but vour 

 "fish tales" 

 In 



Your 



Sack; 



But for me there's nothing in it, 

 To compare with one sweet minute, 

 When, gun in hand, I hear the mallard 

 Quack I 



Quack ! 



Quack ! 



On a joyous autumn morning, 

 Out just before its dawning, 

 When the throb of nature in vour veins, 

 leaves 



In your 



Heart 



No lack; 



Down to the water gunning, 

 You are hurried into running, 

 For up the lake he's coming, with his 

 Quack ! 



Quack ! 



Quack ! 



But he's there before you're ready, 

 And he's gone before you're steady 

 Enough to train your fowling-piece so's to 

 get 



Him in 



Y r our 



Sack; 



But you needn't look so sorry; 

 Just climb into that dory, 

 And get ready for the soiree, of the 

 Quack ! 



Quack! 



Quack ! 



For there's plenty to be doing, 

 While you're standing 'round a-stewing; 

 And the gay and festive duck for fooling 

 hunters 

 Has 



A 



Knack. 



Your decoys must be just right, 

 You must yourself be out of sight, 

 And your boat be hidden quite, at the 

 Quack ! 



Quack ! 



Quack ! 



Oh, to fool the wary flyer, 

 Than which there is none shyer, 

 And bring him home, so plump and round, 

 enclosed 

 Within 



Your 



Sack! 



This is surely recreation, 

 And will make a whole vacation 

 For the man who's left vocation for the 

 Quack ! 



Quack ! 



Quack! 



A Hamilton girl who had been very 

 clever at college came home the other day 

 and said to her mother : "Mother, I've 

 graduated, but now I wish to take up 

 psychology, philology, bibli — " 



"Just wait a minute," said the mother. 

 "I have arranged for you a thorough course 

 in roastology, boilology, stitchology, darn- 

 ology, patchology. and general domestic- 

 ology. Now put on your apron and pluck 

 that chicken." — Saxby's Magazine. 



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