ON 
EXaeIN TENS INIGICT NGI) VIPs Sie 
WALDO. 
“Can you get away for an afternoon 
with the ducks?” inquired my friend the 
taxidermist, who is likewise a naturalist. 
iecanh asatdels sb titerell mime ssitem Diane 
magic can you produce duck-shooting 
within an afternoon’s trip of the city?” 
The taxidermist regarded me quizzi- 
cally. “‘Have you ever hunted ducks 
where they are scarce and wary?” he in- 
quired. “Can you stand absolutely mo- 
tionless, with nothing in sight, for a half- 
MOUnrateatinie 4): slmcanhaassaldeleummadeinien 
meet me at my house in time to catch t-e 
2 10 Clock; car, . said hen ihemaverace 
sportsman here will tell you that duck- 
shooting is a sport of the past; and so it 
I Gye Inia.“ 
At 2 o’clock, rubber-booted and in hunt- 
ing togs, we were speeding out of the city. 
In 20 minutes we were on the outskirts 
of a suburb, and in a little hollow the taxi- 
dermist signalled to stop. Then came a 
mile tramp over the meadows past little 
mud-holes and ponds, each of. which had 
in the old days more than once contrib- 
uted to the taxidermist’s bag. Then 
the long, silent Connecticut gleamed in 
the distance. Cautiously we stole to its 
edge. As well might we have crept to the 
edge of the drinking fountain in City 
Square. The taxidermist did not look dis- 
appointed, therefore I tried not to. And 
why should I? Was it not enough just to 
be tramping away from human habitation 
and sound of human life, alone with 
dear old Mother Nature, breathing her 
gloriously pure air, basking in her sun- 
shine, listening to the lap of water and the 
twitter of the sparrows in the hedge? Was 
not this, after all, the real charm of hunt- 
ing? 
So we tramped the meadows, kicking 
through the tangled clumps of grass on 
the edge of set-backs, in quest of short- 
eared owls for the taxidermist, now and 
then getting one, and again missing, as 
they rose with their erratic flight, so like 
that of a snipe. 
Gradually the afternoon wore on, and 
just’ as) a ereat) cloniouse: ballemommtne 
touched the tops of the distant match- 
less Berkshire hills, we reached the river’s 
edge again at the mouth of a tiny creek. 
Wading out into the rice and willows, 
we took our stands side by side. Slowly 
the sun sank and the shadows deepened. 
With chirps and twitterings of half-forgot- 
ten summer songs, hundreds of tree spar- 

438 
rows and finches settled in the rice, some 
within arm’s reach. An owl flitted by 
with ghostly noiselessness. The golden 
glow in the west softened and the dusk 
deepened. Farther and farther out into 
the river stole the black shadow line of 
the opposite shore. Now and again a 
sparrow trilled a sleepy “good-night.” <A 
mile away, at some farm house, a hound 
bays, and the still night air brings it as if 
it were but just over the bank. Silently 
and motionless we stand, with feet and 
hands numb with the cold. 
Then, without warning, 6 swiftly mov- 
ing forms loom out of the dusk, making 
for the creek. Not a motion from either 
of us until they are abreast. Then the 
guns speak as one, and with a splash 2 
birds fall, while, with a startled ‘quack, 
quack,” the others jump higher and van- 
ish in the gathering darkness. A tew 
minutes later the whistle of wings behind 
us gives warning of another flock, but we 
dare not turn, for they will be gone. Over 
they come, and we miss. Then 2 more 
flocks come and circle at long range. We 
move not, for we will not take the chance 
of so long a shot, giving the birds unnec- 
essary alarm. Suspiciously they circle 
and then a series of splashes in the black- 
ness beyond tell us they have joined the 
others in the river. 
Silence reigns, and still we wait. The 
moon comes up and a flood of silvery 
light gives a weird outline to familiar ob- 
jects. The shore is indented with coves 
that we have never seen before. Only the 
sky, with its twinkling stars, is familiar. 
A sparrow moves uneasily and makes 
sleepy complaint. A rustling in the rice 
above us and a contented quack tell us 
that unseen a flock of ducks have reached 
their feeding grounds. 
From out the intense blackness in mid- 
river comes a subdued, inquiring ‘‘quack.”’ 
“Quack,” responds the taxidermist, decid- 
edly. Again comes the query; again the 
decided answer. Then, out on the edge of 
the shadow appears an incoming line of 
silver. It is the wake made by our wary 
interlocutor swimming in. A minute later 
we see him, black in the moonlight. The 
taxidermist’s gun speaks, and, with a 
whistle of wings, the ducks above us leave 
the rice, while a still, black form drifts in 
to our feet. 
Thus ended the first of many such even- 
ings with my friend the taxidermist, and 



