A MORNING'S DUCK SHOOTING. 



H. W. CLOSS. 



One morning in the fall of '96 found my 



friend, F , and me walking toward the 



big buckwheat Hats a few miles Southeast 



of the village of R , in Northern New 



York. It was not yet daybreak, the air 

 was cold and a stiff breeze was blowing. 



Arriving at our destination, we en- 

 sconced ourselves in our hastily con- 

 structed bough house. Seated on a rough 

 board supported by pieces of rails, we 

 waited, listening to the ululant solos of a 

 belated owl and the chorus of innumera- 

 ble frogs from a neighboring marsh. Gray 

 streaks began to show over the hilltops 

 in the East, and the morning broke cold, 



some inexplicable reason, they wheeled and 

 came down the wind, passing over about 

 30 yards to our right. We extended to 

 them a pressing invitation to stop, which 

 3 found it convenient to accept. As we 

 retrieved them we saw the rest winging 

 their way over a hill half a mile distant. We 

 followed them, knowing as well as they of 

 the little stream which wends along the 

 other side of that hill. But how to reach 

 them unobserved was not so well known 

 to us. 



After consultation we decided to climb 

 the hill and crawl over its brow to another 

 old rail fence, which ran nearly to the 



SUDDENLY WITH A DISCORDANT CRY THEY AROSE,, STARTING DIRECTLY 



AWAY FROM US 



cloudy and damp. In the merging of dark- 

 ness into light we began to recognize ob- 

 jects around us in their true character. 

 Looking about, we saw a flock of 10 or 12 

 ducks quietly feeding in the middle of an 

 adjoining lot. 



"We'll have to crawl along the fence 

 and take big chances," said F , knock- 

 ing the ashes out of his pipe and changing 

 the shells in his gun. 



So concealing our bodies as best we 

 could, we crawled along the old rail fence 

 to a point about 75 yards from the flock. 

 Suddenly, with a discordant cry, they rose, 

 Starting directly away from us. Then, for 



265 



stream at its widest point. There we ex- 

 pected to find the remainder of the flock. 

 We climbed the hill, crawled to the fence 

 and scanned the creek. No ducks could 

 we see, but we could hear and knew they 

 were not far away. As we were about to 

 approach nearer I saw in the distance a 

 living V coming toward us. Down we 

 dropped as flat as turtles. 



"Don't you think they have seen our 

 friends in the creek and are going to join 

 them?" I ventured to ask. 



But F was too intent on watching 



the birds to answer. Presently the new- 

 comers paused in midair, and then dropped 



