DUCK SHOOTING ON THE ST. LAWRENCE. 



ASHLEY D. CONGER. 



One of the most interesting, as well as 

 exciting modes of duck shooting, is from 

 behind a blind. This art is acquired only 

 by persistent practice, as may be learned 

 from any of the experienced duck hunters 

 on the St. Lawrence. The fall shooting 

 lasts about 3 weeks, consisting mainly of 

 broadbills, as they are called here, but blue- 

 bills farther South. These birds, having 

 been driven South by the freezing of little 

 streams and lakes farther North, assemble 

 in large numbers on the waters of the St. 

 Lawrence before their final flight South, 

 where they feed on wild rice, etc., and re- 

 turn again in the spring to the St. Lawrence 

 as fat as butter. 



After the broadbills leave, the whistlers 

 make their appearance, and about the 1st of 

 December they come in large numbers, 

 making flocks of thousands of birds. This 

 class remains here all winter, living in the 

 swift waters, which do not freeze entirely 

 over, and feeding generally on shell fish 

 and wild rice, a rare luxury to them. This 

 species is never seen on land and seldom on 

 ice, but in their hatching season they build 

 their nests in the hollow of a tree. . 



' As usual on Friday night, Frank and I 

 went down to the shack to spend Saturday 

 shooting ducks. The next morning before 

 dawn we cautiously slid our boat out over 

 the ice, and with a store of decoys as well 

 as grub, started for the place we had se- 

 lected as best for our morning's hunt. A 

 large ice jam had come down in the night 

 and lodged in front of the place where we 

 expected to set our decoys, leaving a little 

 channel, the only water space on that side 

 of the river. 



"They'll come down through here if they 

 will anywhere," said Frank, knowing that 

 whistlers always avoid flying over the ice 

 when possible. The decoy house being built 

 out of ice cut from the edge, I slipped on 

 my white duck suit and stepped into the 

 blind, while Frank sorrowfully rowed far 

 enough away not to arouse the suspicion 

 of any game which might come within range 

 of my trusty gun. It was light enough to 

 discern the faint outline of the shore and 

 before I knew it an early riser slipped into 

 the wooden counterfeits, whistling a merry 

 tune, soon to be silenced by a charge of 

 No. s's from my right barrel. 



This shot roused the birds from their 

 roosting places and up the river it looked 

 as if a black thunder cloud were approach- 

 ing. The whistling was united in one mas- 

 sive chorus, the sweetest music to a hunt- 

 er's ear. What a sight ! People say they 

 fail to see the sport in duck shooting, in 

 which one must sit out on the ice and 

 freeze. Could any genuine sportsman 

 freeze at such a sight ? I actually per- 

 spired as I nervously slipped 2 No. 5's into 

 my gun, and with my eyes on a level with 

 the top of the decoy house, and head as still 

 as possible, brought my gun into easy po- 

 sition to raise, for a whistler does not take 

 more than 3 or 4 seconds to discover that 

 he is fooled, and loses no time in making 

 his exit. Two more birds swung within 

 easy range and one reckless fellow dropped 

 in ; but I prefer wing shots, as a larger target 

 is given. One of these dropped to my right 

 barrel. The left only wounded the other and 

 made the feathers fly from his broad tail. 

 The one in the water immediately dived 

 and was not seen again until he came up 

 out of range. After that, I missed and 

 wounded a number, much to the disgust of 

 Frank, who sat in the boat chiding me as 

 being a bad shot. This aroused me and 

 I bagged 2 green headed drakes in one 

 shot as they swooped over the decoys; and 

 I kept on until I had 6 sure ones ; for in the 

 swift water one is never sure of a duck 

 until he is safely deposited in the boat. 



It was then Frank's turn to shoot, and 

 what a bombardment he gave them ! He 

 burned all his shells and secured only 4 

 birds. When no birds fell at his last shot, 

 he swore it was the gun, and that he would 

 never shoot the cursed tiling again. 



At noon, the worst part of the day for 

 a flight, I took it easy on a straw bag be- 

 hind the blind, reading until I was aroused 

 4 times by the splash of single ducks, as 

 they alighted among the decoys. All these 

 were secured by cautiously turning around 

 and shooting them as they flew out. 



With 16 handsome birds we made our 

 way back to the shack, where we enjoyed 

 a good feast and a sound sleep. This is 

 only one of the numerous experiences 

 which we have had, but by far the most 

 exciting and best of our duck shooting ca- 

 reer as boys. 



"I paid $200 for this terrier." 

 "Skye high, eh?"— Judge. 



4'5 



