DUCKING ON THE SUSQUEHANNA. 



F. ZIMMERMAN. 



k shooting on the Susquehanna, 

 .ally on the main stream, is different 

 any other method of which I have 



a d. From where its 2 branches join, 

 the , lver for 50 miles Southward averages 

 a mile wide. It is dotted with thousands 

 of small bars and islands, where the birds 

 feed. The ducks, which consist of nearly 

 every variety, but chiefly black and mal- 

 lard, are found only near certain bars. 

 Other bars look equally inviting, yet the 

 ducks avoid them, and gather in unex- 

 pected places, selecting those which afford 

 a chance of escape in case of danger. 



Decoy shooting is little followed along 

 that section of the river; the birds are 

 too wary. The most approved method is 

 shooting from duck boats or sinks. A flat 

 boat about 14 feet long, with a blind on 

 one end built of grass, is generally used. 

 The boat is usually occupied by 2 persons, 

 one to paddle and one to shoot. The 

 paddling requires by far the most experi- 

 ence and skill. With an outfit of this de- 

 scription, a good paddler and a fair shot, a 

 satisfactory bag can be obtained almost 

 any day during the flight, by floating down 

 with the current 30 or 40 miles. 



One day in the latter part of November 

 I received a letter from Joe, who lives 

 down the river about q miles, asking me 

 to go out for black ducks, as they were 

 moving. I got down my gun, which had 

 seen 4 years' service among the ducks, 

 prepared ammunition, and left for Joe's. 



Next morning we loaded the boat with 

 our guns, paddles and lunch, and a large 

 bunch of straw, with which to cushion the 

 bottom of the boat. We were well ac- 

 quainted with every bar, riffle and chan- 

 nel. After a paddle of about a mile we 

 arrived at Bald flat, where we expected to 

 get our first shot. I took the paddle for 

 the day, as I pride myself on my_skill. and 

 wary must be the old green-headed drake 

 Joe and I cannot fool. Silently we glided 

 past the eddies. W r e had nearly passed the 

 bar when ''Splash! whirr!" Away back 

 to the right a pair of black ducks jumped 

 out, offering a difficult shot. 



"Bang!" dead bird. 



"Bang!" clean miss. 



The first duck of the season. We were 

 both jubilant. After securing the dead 

 bird we floated along, now and then pick- 

 ing up a small duck on the open water, 

 and once in a while seeing a bunch of 

 whistlers ahead. We ran into a favorite 

 bar 8 miles below our starting point, where 

 we expected to do our best shooting. 



"Get down now and do not wink." 



Si 1 ently we glided among the birches. I 

 whispered: 



"There are the greenheads, Joe, in 

 among the birches." 



"I don't see them. 



"Burr!" Up they rose, about 30, all 

 mallards. 



"Bang, bang!" Both shots nearly to- 

 gether and never a bird. I singled out the 

 old leader, off to the left. 



"Bang!" A long shot and a fine bird; 

 the biggest mallard I ever killed, weigh- 

 ing 4 pounds, 2 ounces. 



We then had a hot argument as to the 

 whys and wherefores of Joe's miss. I 

 thought and still believe he was rattled 

 and shot to kill the whole flock. We 

 glided along until we arrived at Berry's 

 falls, 18 miles below. Then Joe said: 



"Hold up! There go 4 ducks in be- 

 hind that bar below the falls." 



After a consultation we decided Joe 

 should crawl across the bar among the 

 bushes, while I was to float down to the 

 point and wait for him. I floated leisurely 

 along, expecting to hear the crack of 

 Joe's gun. When I reached the last of 

 the willows and looked across the grass 

 that skirted all the bars, I saw the green 

 head of a mallard drake. I picked up the 

 gun with one hand, while with the other I 

 held to the willows. Then I fired, and 

 out went 2 more. 



"Bang!" dead bird. 



"Bang!" miss. 



I will try once more. 



"Bang!" The duck's foot hung down for 

 a moment, but he flew on strong as ever. 

 I hurried to pick up the 2 dead birds, when 

 out of the bushes came Joe. 



"Hurry! One lit on the other side." 



He jumped in and away we went for 

 the other one which we thought wounded, 

 but found dead on the water 300 yards 

 across and below the bar. 



"Joe, why didn't you shoot?" 



"Why, I was just going to when you 

 shot. I was lying down flat and pulling 

 up my gun to fire, but thought you were 

 shooting at the ducks I was after and I 

 expected to see them drop." 



Three more miles of paddling took us to 

 Halifax, where we pulled in, sent our boat 

 home by freight, and took the evening 

 train to our respective towns. We had 3 

 black ducks, 4 mallards and enough small 

 ducks to make the score 17. 



Fall shooting on our river is becoming 

 poorer every year, partly because of the 

 incessant shooting at quail and rabbits on 

 both shores. This has driven the ducks 

 away from places where they were former- 

 ly plentiful. Then the coal culm washing 

 down the river destroys the feed and 

 makes the water rank, spoiling both duck 

 shooting and fishing. 

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