DUCK SHOOTING ON IPSWICH BAY. 



M. R. LOVETT. 



The peculiarity of the duck shooting on 

 Ipswich bay is that the hunter's success 

 depends wholly on the storminess of the 

 weather. As some men find their greatest 

 pleasure in overcoming the hardest prob- 

 lems, so sea fowl glory in the crash of the 

 surf, the wild sweep of the gale and the 

 roar of the hurricane. On perfect days, 

 when the waves gently wash the beach, too 

 lazy to curl and foam, the duck flies far to 

 find rougher waters, more worthy of his 

 nautical prowess. 



Most hunters, seduced by Nature's smile 

 and fearing her frown, make their fruitless 

 expeditions in August or September ; but 

 it is when November storms drive white 

 capped billows across the bar to beat on 

 the sands of Lakeman's beach, that the 

 wise hunter frequents Ipswich bay. Then 

 there are ducks in plenty. The black duck, 

 fattened by his stay in Labrador; the mal- 

 lard from distant Greenland ; the coot, 

 which has been driven into the Gulf of 

 St. Lawrence ; the little sheldrake, fresh 

 from the dangerous Bay of Fundy; all 

 these bob like corks on the yeasty water. 



The bay is shaped like a bow, whose 

 string is the wreck-strewed bar. Between 

 its extremities, Tucker's and Plum Island 

 points, is the crescent stretch of sea sand, 

 the Sagamore ledges rising from the middle 

 like the knuckles of a mighty hand. From 

 the white lighthouses on the points, one 

 can see, near at hand, the masts and sails 

 of the Gloucester fishing vessels, a little 

 farther the fateful rocks of Norman's 

 Woe, and, 30 miles away, the brooding 

 smoke column above busy Boston. Thus 

 Ipswich occupies a central position of the 

 North shore, but the sands of Cape Ann 

 offer few commercial inducements and the 

 duck hunter and the wild fowl are its only 

 visitors. 



There are 2 methods of hunting ducks ; 

 one by means of decoys, from the land ; the 

 other, by means of sailboats, beyond the 

 bar. The preference of the duck for stormy 

 weather makes both difficult and even dan- 

 gerous, but only the boldest spirits dare 

 try the uncertain sea ; the greater number 

 of hunters shoot from the shelter of the 

 land. 



Let us follow one of these latter some 

 bleak November morning. In the early 

 hour before daybreak, gun in hand, he walks 

 along the shifting beach, half smothered 

 by the swirling sands, and takes his place 

 with his decoys among the fallen fragments 

 of Sagamore cliffs. Even there he is not 

 comfortable; to shiver in the chill morning 

 air and at the same time to be sandpapered 



by the gritty blasts, surely is disagreeable. 



By this time the sea birds are astir. Above 

 the roar of the water the whir of countless 

 wings can be heard, and against the blue 

 gray vault flit passing shadows. As yet 

 the ducks do not alight. Not until dawn 

 pales the yellow shafts from the beacon 

 lights, do the ducks appear. It seems to be 

 breakfast time and all are busily feeding 

 on the tender shellfish, insecurely sheltered 

 by the crashing combers. The live decoys, 

 encouraged by hereditary love of water and 

 the presence of their wild relatives, breast 

 the breakers and join also in the repast. 

 Interested by unlimited oysters on the 

 half shell, and deceived by the presence 

 of the tollers, the ducks gradually approach 

 the deadly rocks. Now they are so near 

 that, as the sun, half risen from its early 

 bath, surrounds them with a blazing path, 

 we see the sparkling drops cast off by the 

 oblique flit of the blunt tails on the down- 

 ward plunge, and, as they rise from the 

 long immersion, the satisfied but wary shake 

 of the head, as if the unseen morsel had 

 tasted well. The fowler calculates the dis- 

 tance — 100, 75, 50 yards — and the glittering 

 barrels of a shot gun point down the heav- 

 ing, fire-paved road. Crash ! Bang ! The 

 survivors fly confusedly away. The steep 

 bluffs echo the roar, the noise of the surf 

 is drowned by a greater sound, and, at the 

 cessation of the customary din of the sea, 

 the gulls soar screaming from their rocky 

 homes ; but behind are a score of inanimate 

 objects floating in on the crashing waves 

 to be hurled at the feet of the slayer. 



The duck's worst foe is the gliding 

 sailboat. As he wings his way affrightedly 

 from the hostile" shore, to drop into the 

 ocean by the bar, he meets new and more 

 terrible enemies. There is no rest. Hard- 

 ly has the little patch of foam made by his 

 alighting been swallowed up, when he is 

 surrounded by the shark-like boats of the 

 sea. 



If we would join this little flotilla with 

 our dory, we must take with us a good stock 

 of courage. We must forego the last few 

 hours of sleep and pass into the bay before 

 the moon pales in the West ; we must be 

 ready to get as wet as the duck himself. 



Near the great bar the water heaves 

 with the concentrated swell of the Atlantic, 

 and spoondrift flies like hail. For an hour 

 we hover on the edge of the great breakers, 

 so near that the spray drives over us in 

 clouds, and each sea threatens to swamp 

 the boat as it piles up for its final plunge. 

 At last the man in the bow points toward 

 the bar and we see the ducks, rising and 



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