THANKSGIVING AT OLD BILL'S. 



B. F. COGSWELL, JR. 



One November afternoon Andy, Doc and 

 I boarded a Long Island train, intending to 

 spend Thanksgiving Day with old Bill at 

 his place on Great South bay, our favorite 

 duck shooting ground. Lighting our pipes, 

 we settled down in the smoking car and gave 

 Doc advice on the art of duck shooting, for 

 he was a tenderfoot. We laid great stress on 

 attending at once to cripples, in order to 

 cause as little suffering as possible. We 

 told him to let the flock go and use his sec- 

 ond barrel on any cripple he might have 

 down, rather than cripole another and leave 

 them both to suffer while he reloaded. The 

 man who tries to hog everything in sight 

 can not shoot with Andy and me. 



Then we were at the station and saw Bill 

 awaiting us on the platform. Stowing our 

 duds, we cast off our bow line and under a 

 gentle breeze made fair progress, arriving 

 at Bill's shanty hungry as wolves. 



The next day was promising for black 

 ducks, for the wind had been gradually in- 

 creasing all night. Hiding the boat to our 

 satisfaction, we arranged ourselves just in 

 time to hear Honk ! Honk ! An old Can- 

 ada goose was visible off to the East. 

 Honk ! Honk ! came from Bill's point. An- 

 dy and I quietly changed our 4's for shells 

 loaded for larger game and waited. The 

 Canadian came within range, and 4 barrels 

 bored as many holes in the air, but not a 

 feather was disarranged. We stared at 

 the rapidly vanishing goose, then at each 

 other, then made a few remarks. 



The black ducks came in. As they 

 dropped their feet to alight, we turned 



loose, but only one fell, and he would 

 have got away had not Doc attended to 

 him in a businesslike way. 



Our shooting that morning was the 

 source of much amusement, and that to 

 nobody more than Andy and me. Bill had 

 seen us shoot before and kept saying : 

 "What's the' matter, byes?" What's the 

 matter?" 



However, it is not all the pleasure of 

 duck shooting to fill a boat with birds. To 

 me waiting for daylight is one charm; 

 to hear the water sifting through the dry 

 grass, the voices of the marsh, the distant 

 quack of some duck disturbed from his 

 bed, and later to see the indistinct line of 

 5 black ducks go by, well up, bound for 

 the ocean. Off to the left some crows 

 have come to life and waken the echoes 

 with their hoarse caw ! caw ! caw ! 



A flock of broadbills came in. The old 

 story was repeated. Our hoped for heavy 

 day was a dead loss. We watched small 

 flocks of ducks go over, bound outside. Here 

 comes a large flock of blacks ! How pret- 

 ty they look, in the straight line, like "an 

 arrow in the sky." There's no stop in that 

 flock for many a mile. This "Black Ex- 

 press" has filled our doll with sawdust, so 

 we take up our stool. 



"I guess it is just as well," said Andy, 

 "for Cogsie and I could not hit a duck to- 

 day at 20 yards;" and he was right. 



Stopping at the shanty for a bite, we 

 sailed back through the "aisles of creeks" 

 and boarded the train for the city. Only 

 4 birds, but bushels of fun. 



A Chinaman had 3 dogs. When he came 

 home one evening he found them asleep 

 on his couch of teakwood and marble. He 

 whipped the dogs and drove them forth. 



The next night when the man came home 

 the dogs were lying on the floor, but he 

 placed his hand on the couch and found it 

 warm from their bodies. Therefore he 

 whipped the dogs again. The third night, 

 returning home a little earlier than usual, 

 he found the dogs sitting before the couch 

 blowing on it to cool it ! — London World. 



293 



