A WOMAN'S FIRST MALLARD. 



Katharine M. Baxter. 



The marvellous St. Clair flats ! To 

 visit and enjoy them once, means 

 generally to return. This locality was 

 recently the objective point of a few 

 days' outing, after an absence of four 

 years; and a sight of the old North 

 channel recalled many memories, one of 

 which I feel inclined to recount for the 

 readers of Recreation. My husband, 

 proud of the little skill I had attained in 

 shooting, and acting on suggestions from 

 my medical adviser, had indulged and 

 humored my inclination for out of door 

 exercise and sport, to the extent of a 

 beautiful double shot-gun, of fine 

 quality, sixteen gauge, and light weight 

 — six and one half pounds. It suited 

 me exactly. 



Immodest? No; the world is better 

 educated than formerly and women are 

 now allowed to indulge in such rational 

 outdoor sports as are suited to them. 

 Modern women are not prudes. 



One night, my punter, Hank, informed 

 me there was promise of a strong west 

 wind for the following day, which would 

 be favorable for ducks — or rather for 

 us — and I realized the importance of 

 the occasion, as I arranged matters with 

 " mine host," whereby I should be 

 called at four o'clock a. m. which was 

 like midnight at that season. Excite- 

 ment and insomnia are synonymous 

 terms with me, and sleeping lightly I 

 was easily aroused. 



After dressing by starlight, and then 

 lighting a lamp, a long look in the 

 glass satisfied me that my dearest friend 

 would have denied me in that grotesque 



garb. I felt ready for any emergency, 

 clad in my husband's rubber boots, 

 reaching to my waist, and concealed by 

 my cheviot boating dress, over all of 

 which I wore a Mackintosh, and woollen 

 Tam O'Shanter. The cook had pre- 

 pared for me, the night before, a cold, 

 though toothsome breakfast, the side 

 partner of which was a well filled lunch 

 basket. Eating heartily, I extinguished 

 the lamp ; then with game-pouch and 

 cartridge bag slung over my shoulders, 

 lunch basket and gun in hand, I started 

 out with Hank, who was armed with gun 

 and lantern, for the boat house where 

 he had everything prepared. A simple 

 task, indeed, for all he could provide for 

 my seat was an empty starch-box which 

 was softened by doubling his jacket 

 thereon. I was surprised and de- 

 lighted with the spirit of chivalry that 

 prompted this little attention. 



The duck boat, in use on the flats, is 

 a small, light skiff. Two hunters usually 

 sit on the gunwale, their feet in the 

 cockpit, as the oval hollow is called. 

 The edge of the cockpit is connected 

 with the gunwale by means of a six or 

 eight inch strip of canvas. Thus if the 

 points or decks are under water, as is 

 often the case when there is a " sea on," 

 the gunwale, rising, floats above, pre- 

 venting the water from entering the 

 cockpit. Hank taught me how to step 

 into this cranky little craft, and I settled 

 myself, I can scarcely say comfortably, 

 on my starch-box, under which the 

 luncheon was placed. I took the short 

 paddle, Hank the long one, a double- 

 ender, and we were off, Hank humming 

 " Me big Injun — my old squaw," or 

 something of the kind. 



Now I know the proper caper was to 

 be frightened almost to death at that 

 shaky little boat, but I didn't have a 

 single quakey sensation. I ought to 

 have done a certain amount of worrying 

 over the possible results — as to getting 

 back alive, as to accidents with the 

 guns (I had mine balanced across my 

 lap), as to the danger of drowning, etc.; 

 but all I could see ahead was ducks, 

 ducks. Would I get any ? How many? 



