DUCK DECOYS IN PIKE COUNTY. 



E. E. HICKOCK. 



We had been telling hunting and fishing 

 stories and it was the Major's turn. After 

 refilling his glass he said : It was away 

 back yonder when some 30,000 of us were 

 retreating South after having captured Mul- 

 ligan's brigade at Lexington, Missouri. It 

 had been raining all day and brigades, regi- 

 ments and companies were all mixed up. 

 About night the wagon train of our regi- 

 ment, which had stuck together during the 

 day, came to the crossing of a river and 

 one of the wagons stuck fast, despite the 

 efforts of the teamsters. About 25 of us, 

 wet and draggled, were working to get it 

 loose. The air was getting dark, but it had 

 a tinge of blue from the cursing of the 

 teamsters and the men. We were near 

 giving up, and were about to leave the old 

 wagon where it was, when there came dash- 

 ing down into the stream a company of 

 mounted infantry, seemingly as fresh and 

 sprightly as if it was morning of a bright 

 day. One of them, in a strong, cheery yoice 

 set up the song, 



"Ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho! 

 The pride of Missouri am a comin', 

 An' we'll never mind the wedder, 

 But get ober double trouble, 

 For we're bound for the happy land of Ca-ni-ann." 



The verse ended as the singer came 

 abreast of our wagon and he seemed to 

 speak to his captain, who gave an order for 

 a dozen or so to tumble off and help us out, 

 which they did in a few minutes. We 

 made the best time we could for a few 

 miles, where we were lucky enough to find 

 the rest of our company in camp. A thou- 

 sand camp fires built of fence rails made a 

 pretty sight in the falling rain, but there 

 was nothing to eat, and no feed for the 

 horses. All we had had since morning 

 was what cold corn bread we had then put 

 in our pockets. I skirmished around in the 

 commissary wagon, and was fortunate in 

 finding a piece of bacon as big as my 2 

 hands, which we speedily sliced and toasted 

 over the fire. By the time it was fairly hot, 

 a sudden dash of rain nearly quenched all 

 the camp fires. Just then from a company 

 camped near, there came the song, 



My name it is Joe Bowers, 



I have a brother Ike, 

 I came from old Missouree, 



All the way from Pike. 



And the singer came to us with a big 

 pone of corn bread. Each of us had a 

 chunk and a mouthful of bacon, which 

 tasted mighty good, although the next 

 morning Cap, the Commissary, told me he 

 had thrown away that piece of bacon, as it 



was full of worms. After eating, we went 

 to sleep at once, wet as we were. 



Long before daylight the man at my 

 back gave me a punch in the ribs to waken 

 me. The rain and wind had ceased, and 

 the dead silence which comes just before 

 dawn was being broken by a strain of 

 music from away off somewhere. Head- 

 quarters brass band, we afterwards learned; 

 and they were playing "Home, Sweet 

 Home." I much doubt if ever the old 

 melody had more appreciative listeners, for 

 we were nearly all young strips of fellows, 

 many never away from home before. We 

 knew our army was retreating, and the 

 fatigue of the day before, with the surety 

 that many of us would never see our homes 

 again, was so depressing that tears were in 

 the eyes of our whole outfit. Suddenly the 

 music stopped, as if some one had knocked 

 the players over the head, and they ought 

 to have been for selecting that tune at that 

 time. There was silence for a minute and 

 then came, 



"My name it is Joe Bowers, 

 I have a brother Ike." 



The transition was instantaneous. A 

 cheer and a yell went up, spreading from 

 company to regiment, and to brigade, until 

 5,000 throats made the morning ring. We 

 were once more ourselves, ready for any- 

 thing that might come. 



It's too long a story to follow Joe all 

 through the war, but in that time I knew 

 him well and liked him. He liked me, 

 also, and after our return home I saw him 

 at intervals. He prospered and now owns 

 a large farm partly on the Mississippi bluffs 

 and partly in the bottoms. There are thou- 

 sands of lakes and ponds in that region, 

 which form the regular highway of all 

 kinds of water fowl in their annual migra- 

 tion from South to North in the spring and 

 back in the fall. Joe is a true sportsman. 

 He only kills what he can use, and, like 

 me, he'd rather catch one 6 ounce sunfish 

 with a fly rod and a horse hair fly than 

 100 crappies on a chalk line and a live 

 minnow. 



Some years ago Joe decided to tame a 

 wild duck. He got a setting of mallard eggs, 

 and had them hatched under a tame duck 

 which the children had raised as a pet. 

 The little ducklings were also petted, but 

 their wild nature would assert itself, and in 

 the fall they would have flown away had 

 not Joe taken the precaution to clip the tin 

 feathers of each left wing. The next sea- 

 son another brood was raised from the 

 eggs of the yearling captives, and so on 



