A DAY ON THE MARSHES. 



H. B. G. 



It had been raining a few days and 

 there were no indications of a change of 

 weather. Whenever it rains I have an 

 irresistible desire to go duck shooting, 

 especially in November when birds are 

 plentiful ; so when I saw a long string of 

 ducks flying in the direction of my favorite 

 hunting grounds, the Suisun marshes, I 

 looked up my chum, Fred, and we ar- 

 ranged to go duck shooting. We decided 

 to leave late the following day, which was 

 Friday, stay all night at our cabin on the 

 marsh and get up early Saturday for our 

 hunt. 



When the time came for our departure 

 we started, loaded with ba gage and 

 followed by Fred's Irish water spaniel 

 Jess, and my Irish setter, Shot, 2 dogs that 

 could do as much work as any 3 in the 

 country. The train arrived at Suisun 

 about 5 p. m. After walking half a mile 

 from the station we came to our cabin, 

 and Fred, who was elected cook, pro- 

 ceeded to get supper. 



At 4 o'clock next morning Fred, who 

 already had breakfast cooking, called me. 

 I scrambled out of bed, pulled on my gum 

 boots and oilskins, ate a hasty breakfast 

 and we started, Fred carrying a sack filled 

 with decoys. Shot and Jess barked and 

 jumped and showed their delight in every 

 way known to a dog. After walking a 

 short distance we reached our blind, on the 

 edge of a slough about 80 yards wide, and 

 set out our decoys. This finished, we 

 made ourselves as comfortable as circum- 

 stances and a drizzling rain would permit. 



We waited a while without seeing a bird, 

 and I was on the point of getting up to 



stretch my cramped legs when Fred 

 grabbed me by the arm and pointed ahead. 

 Looking in that direction I saw by the 

 uncertain light 2 big honkers just within 

 range. 



"Take the leader," I said, as I held well 

 ahead of the second bird and fired. Fred 

 got his bird with the second barrel, while 

 the one I shot at turned and flew back in 

 the direction whence it came. Pre- 

 sently a flock of 3 came straight for our 

 blind. When they were about 10 yards 

 from us I stood up, fired and down came 

 the first one right at our feet. Turning 

 quickly I fired at another and brought it 

 down. The one Fred shot at sped away 

 with its leg hanging. 



It was by that time quite light and we 

 could see ducks flying in different parts 

 of the marsh and now and then hear the 

 report of a gun. Soon we saw a large 

 flock of mallards coming in our direction. 

 I don't claim to be expert in many things, 

 but if I can do anything I can call a duck. 

 I began talking to that flock, and before 

 long had them circling over our de- 

 coys. 



We both fired at the same time, and had 

 the satisfaction of seeing 3 fat birds drop 

 into the slough. Hardly had the dogs got 

 back to the blind with them before 2 teal 

 came along. My gun missed fire and be- 

 fore I could try the second barrel Fred 

 had dropped both ducks. After that we 

 both made some flock shots; but as a rule 

 the birds flew singly or in pairs. The 

 dogs worked to perfection, and when it 

 was time for us to leave we had all the 

 game we wished to carry. 



THE FOWLER OF THE COAST. 



COLIN MCKAY. 



Above, dark sky and drifting cloud ; 



Below, gray, steaming, surging seas ; 

 Inshore, old ocean's hoary host, 

 Charging the rock-embattled coast ; 



And seaward, whisp'rings of a breeze, 



Dim breaks the dawn o'er Fort Latour, 

 And dank along the mist-draped sea. 

 The wild fowl rise from cove and bay, 

 Flurried and frightened by the day, 

 And scurry seaward, flocking free, 



And shiverings of the deep's dark shroud. As shot guns speak along the shore. 



A fowler, stormy-petrelwise, 



Seated within his dancing boat, 



Floats o'er the waves from crest to crest. 



In careless, ceaseless, wild unrest 

 He waits the morning's moving note — 



The whirr of wild fowl 'cross the skies. 



The fowler rouses with the light, 

 And grasps his ancient fowling piece. 



Active, alert, his keen eyes gaze 



Up through the shimmering, pearly haze 

 That folds him like a mystic fleece, 



Watching the wild fowls' rapid flight. 



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