CANVIDASBACK SHOOTING ON PUGET SOUND. 



J. C. Nattrass. 



If I were asked, what form of hunt- 

 ing I preferred, I could not put my 

 hand on my heart and say " this 

 one," or "that one," without fear of 

 changing my mind the next moment. 

 All forms are good. It is about as Bill 

 Osterman says, who on a certain oc- 

 casion met a chance acquaintance on 

 the road, who asked if the whiskey 

 which he had offered him were good. 

 Bill replied: 



"Good? Why, Tom, there aint no 

 bad whiskey ! There's good whiskey ? 

 There's better whiskey ! There's best 

 whiskey ! There aint no bad whiskey, 

 Tom." 



While not agreeing with this sentiment 

 as applied to whiskey, yet when applied 

 to hunting, I can say as Bill said, " It 

 is all good !" 



Canvasback shooting comes as near 

 being the ideal sport as any. Given a 

 good stand> a good blind, a congenial 

 companion ; a fair number of birds, a 

 good gun and the rest of the world can 

 take care of itself. 



Possibly the best day's sport of my 

 life was one spent in the marshes of 

 British Columbia, a few years since. 



A companion and myself were placed 

 in secure blinds on the margin of a 

 small celery grown lake. The combi- 

 nation was just right. Birds fairly 

 plentiful and the surroundings all that 

 could be desired. It was late in the 

 afternoon. The sun was sinking behind 

 the crest of a mountain in the west. The 

 cold night-wind was moaning through 

 the long prairie grass and cat-tails. The 

 mountains on all sides loomed up black 

 and funereal, and the jagged, snow 

 capped crests took on a green tinge from 

 the tinted clouds. A gentle ripple ruffled 

 the bosom of the water. The canvas 

 decoys bobbed their heads and tried to 

 look as natural as possible. Wild fowl 

 were astir and scurried over the marsh 

 inland for their evening feed. It was 

 growing late for decoy shooting, but the 

 evening flight was about due. 



" Now for a brief hour's sport." 



My companion (one of nature's noble- 

 men) raised his head above his blind 



cautiously and looked back over the 

 prairie where a number of mal- 

 lards were already chuckling over 

 their repast in the marsh. Then he 

 glanced northward, out towards the 

 Fraser river, and disappeared. The wind 

 brought down to our ears the boom of a 

 heavy gun in the distance. There is a 

 whistle overhead, we glance up hastily. 

 It is only a pintail. A black speck comes 

 down with the breeze ; grows larger; 

 takes shape and like a bullet passes over 

 head out of range. A second object ap- 

 proaches, but lower down ; it is a can- 

 vasback : it grows into shape ; rushes 

 straight for our blind, passes over ; a 

 steel tube emerges from my friend's 

 blind ; a stream of fire leaps up ; a puff 

 of smoke ; a sharp crack and the lovely 

 bird's head falls to its glossy breast; the 

 wings close and to the ground it comes, 

 dead. 



" Good shot, old man !" 



But, hush ! here comes another. Like 

 a black streak it flashes by within range 

 of my gun. A fleeting glance is taken of 

 the gamey head over the rib ; the front 

 sight is pushed a dozen feet ahead ; the 

 wood powder flashes ; the powerful 

 wings droop and with unchecked speed 

 the dead body plunges downward into 

 the grass with a thump that would tear 

 a chicken asunder. 



" Even up, old chap !" 



" Yep, dang good shot !" 



" Down you go !" 



A rush of wings heralds the approach 

 of another bird. It swerves out of range, 

 swings upward and plunges in a sharp 

 incline downward with a splash into the 

 water. 



The prairie grows black. The wind 

 whistles more shrill. The flight grows 

 fast and incessant of mallard, teal, 

 widgeon, butterballs and a stray canvas, 

 with here and there a pintail. A band 

 of geese show up, black against the 

 darkening clouds. The frequent squawks 

 of mallard on the prairie prove that 

 the tender shoots and grasses are tooth- 

 some. A noble mallard drake skims 

 over on set wings. A snapshot from my 

 gun knocks a few feathers out of his tail 



