370 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[May 19, 1887. 



AMONG MINNESOTA WILDFOWL. 



"T)OYS," said Bart, pointing over the prairie to the 

 JL3 westward, toward an extensive area of high slough 

 grass; "boys, do you see that bunch of buffalo grass off to 

 the right of the road? Well, there's a big pond in there, 

 and when I came by this morning it was chuck full of 

 mallards, and if they ain't been disturbed, it's more 'an 

 likely they're there * yet. There goes a bunch in there 

 nowi*' he exclaimed, as we observed a large flock of ducks 

 circle around and settle •into the grass. "Well drive 

 along as fur as we can and then see if we can't get a shot 

 at 'em;" and reaching down under a couple of horse 

 blankets in the wagon bed, he pulled out an old 12-bore 

 pin-fire of French make. 



"Is she a hard hitter, Bart?" asked George, throwing 

 the gun up to his face two or three times, and examining 

 it critically. 



"Hard hitter!" ejaculated our host, "well I reckon she 

 ain't nothin' else." 



The above conversation took place one morning in Octo- 

 ber, 1885, on the road from Balaton, Minn., to Bear Lakes, 

 in Murray county. My partner, George R., and myself, 

 had planned a trip into that country along in the sum- 

 mer, and had watched and waited for the day to arrive 

 when we should once more have a chance to drink in the 

 pure ah of the prairies, paddle our boats over the sedgy 

 lakes, mark the flight of wildfowl and perchance bring to 

 bag the wary mallard. The day of our departure finally 

 arrived, and* preparations being completed, we boarded, 

 the train in Chicago and in due time arrived at the little 

 station of Balaton, Lyon county, after having passed 

 through and enjoyed the beautiful Devil's Lake country 

 of Wisconsin, and the rolling prairie land of southern 

 Minnesota. Arriving at Balaton we waited over until 

 the next day when, by previous arrangement. Mr. Bart 

 Low met us, and loading our shooting traps and hunting 

 trunk into his wagon, together with our boat, which had 

 been shipped ahead of us, we were off for his home in 

 Murray county, fifteen miles south. 



This part of the State of Minnesota is noted for its 

 numerous sloughs and lakes, many of which contain wild 

 rice and aie preeminently the home of the mallard. The 

 majority of the smaller waters can be waded with hip boots, 

 and the tall grass and rushes around the edges provide 

 best of cover for the hunter. These sloughs occur fre- 

 quently on the road from Balaton to Bear Lakes, and as 

 we rode along over the rolling country we could see oc- 

 casionally both 'geese and ducks winging their way to 

 and from their feeding grounds, telling us plainly that 

 sport was in store for us. 



"Now, boys." said Bart, pulling up his horses, "Ireckon 

 we're about as near that slough as we ought to get with 

 the team, so we better get out here." 



We employed the usual tactics of approaching the pond 

 from different directions, and, after getting ourselves into 

 good cover. Bart, at a signal, fired a random shot over the 

 wate \ With a great quacking and rushing of wings the 

 ducks sprang into the air and made a break in the "direc- 

 tion of one of the large lakes. This brought them over 

 to me and a couple toppled over to my double report. 

 This reception startled the flock, and in considerable dis- 

 order they turned only to meet with a similar reception 

 frorn George. Again they were repulsed and sought a 

 new direction, but such a height had. they attained that I 

 thought we should get no more; but Bart was the cham- 

 pion, for he stopped three ducks with one barrel. The 

 No. 1 shot with which his shells were loaded told with 

 good effect at such long range, and proved what he had 

 said, that the old fusee could shoot. But I hadn't much 

 time to think about the shot Bart had made, for at his 

 sharp "Mark west !" we went down behind our blinds out 

 of sight of an approaching flock of mallards. They were 

 making directly toward George, and I watched them as 

 they neared the fatal stand. On they came, steadily, 

 until they were well abreast of him. Bang, bang! Three 

 of them tuinblsd headlong into the rushes, while the rest 

 of the flock mounted high in the air and went over me 

 out of range. Bart managed to wing one, after which 

 we retrieved our birds and were once more on our way. 



To me there is not much real sport in this style of shoot- 

 ing, although the game is large and fine. lit lacks the 

 excitement of pass-shooting, while many birds are lost in 

 the matted reeds and grass lining the shores of these 

 ponds, to become the prey of hawks, minks and the like. 

 We arrived at our destination about five hours from Bala- 

 ton. The house of our host was in the edge of 300 acres 

 of timber, the only natural timber, by the way, within a 

 distance of 20 miles or more. This clump of woods, 

 which is composed chiefly of elm, cottonwood, black oak, 

 and burr oak, is nearly surrounded by lakes. The largest, 

 two miles long by about one and a half wide, is Lake Teh- 

 bets; it lies east of the house within a stone's throw of the 

 door. Several of the smaller lakes and ponds contain 

 wild rice, and we had the good fortune to discover some 

 very good ffyways before our stay was over. We spent 

 the rest of the day unpacking our effects and getting into 

 shape in our new quarters. We put our boat into the 

 water, cleaned our guns and loaded some shells. More 

 than once that evening; we paused to mark the flight of 

 ducks or listen to the honking of geese. 



Long before daybreak the next morning we had eaten 

 our bread-and-milk breakfast, prepared for us the night 

 bef :re, and were on the way to the well-known pass on 

 the south shore of Lake Tebbets. As we pushed along 

 through the rushes, ever and anon a duck or two, startled 

 from their morning nap, would take wing, or the hoarse 

 croak of some water bird close by would in turn startle 

 us. Finally, after a deal of hard paddliag and fouling 

 three or four rat huts on the way, we pushed our boat 

 through the rushes on the opposite shore just as faint 

 streaks of light began to show in the east. Wending our 

 way to the higher ground above the margin of the lake, 

 we took our stands about 200yds. apart behind some 

 bushes. I had barely gotten on the stand, with shell box 

 open and heavy outer coat off, when the whistling of 

 wings overhead announced the commencement of the 

 flight. But we were facing the west, and it was not yet 

 light enough to distinguish objects in that direction. 

 However, I had not long to wait, and standing with my 

 gun at a ready, was wondering which of us would draw 

 first blood, when whang! went George's gun, and I felt 

 sure it would not be me who would bring down the first 

 game that morning. 



It is now light enough to see and a bunch of swiftly 

 moving shadowy objects draw my fire. The distant 

 boom of a gun comes borne on the wind from the direc- 



tion of Big Marsh at the other end of the lake and now the 

 ball had opened in earnest. As the sun climbs into sight 

 I have half a dozen down on the land and two or three 

 more have pitched into the pond behind me. A momen- 

 tary lull in the fl'ght gives me an opportunity to look 

 around and gather my birds, which I do very easily, as 

 the grass on the ridge where I stand is quite short. After 

 securing a mallard and a sprigtail from the pond, I count 

 my bunch. Four mallards, three redheads, two sprigtails 

 and a green- winged teal, ten in all. I feel, though, I 

 haven't any too many if I intend to be ahead of George, 

 for his gun has been kept busy and I am too well ac- 

 quainted with his skill and good judgment to be mistaken. 

 The main flight having passed over, we are favored with 

 more singles than flocks; and the shooting in consequence 

 becomes more interesting because more difficult. The 

 ducks begin to climb as they cross and I replace my No. 6 

 shells for those loaded with No. 5. Clean misses are fre- 

 quent at the swift-flying birds. It seems at times next 

 to an impossibility to swing the gun rapidly enough to 

 cover and avoid shooting behind; but occasionally we 

 feel repaid for the misses by making some long or diffi- 

 cult shot. The fun wanes as the sun mounts higher, and 

 by 9 o'clock the flight is over and we have plenty of time 

 to look about us. We adjourn to the boat and count 

 our spoils. I have sixteen ducks, while George comes to 

 the front with nineteen and I acknowledge defeat. 



Leaving George to tie the birds in bunches, preparatory 

 to setting out for home, I climbed a tall cottonwood, 

 which grew near the water's edge, with a field glass to 

 survey the surrounding country. Off to the northward 

 could be seen the two Bear Lakes, connected by a narrow 

 strip of water. In close proximity to the east was Rush 

 Lake. To the westward stretched Lake Tebbets, behind 

 us a long fine of ponds and sloughs. The whole was 

 hemmed in, seemingly, with rolling prairie, forming a 

 beautiful picture to the wildfowler's eye. Indeed, as I 

 drank in the panoramic view from the top of that cotton- 

 wood, I felt that it was indelibly stamped upon my 

 memory. And even now the picture is as fresh to my 

 mind as if I had beheld it but yesterday. 



The evening flight was but a repetition of the morning's 



rrt, only that it did not last so long. Not until the sun 

 ^ ped the western horizon, and we had been on our 

 stands over an hour, did the shooting become anyway 

 brisk, the ducks then skimming the high ground and 

 pitching down to the ponds behind us. As soon as it 

 became too dark to shoot with any degree of certainty, 

 we abandoned our stands and set out for home. Arriv- 

 ing there we found a good supper in waiting for us, some 

 of the ducks shot in the morning forming no small por- 

 tion of the meal. Supper over, we whiled away the even- 

 ing discussing the events of the day — of remarkable shots 

 or unaccountable misses— and listening to stones of early 

 Minnesota life, when "Injuns was plenty and trappin' 

 su'thin' to brag on," until, overcome with drowsiness, we 

 retired, to sleep the s weet sleep of the tired hunter. 



Such is the narrative of our first day's shooting. Noth- 

 ing very startling, to be sure, but simply our experience 

 and that, I dare say, of many another devotee of the gun 

 who may chance to read these lines. 



I have time to speak of the rest of our stay only in 

 general, selecting only tw T o or three red-letter days which 

 were specially enjoyable — for let no one suppose that 

 every day we did nothing but "bag meat." 



At the western extremity of Lake Tebbets is a narrow 

 arm of water filled with wild rice, through which the 

 hunter may push his boat for a distance of perhaps rive 

 hundred yards, when he will come out into a large bay — 

 it might properly be called a lake — containing three or 

 four hundred acres of rice and rushes, with here and 

 there a patch of open water, which is shallow enough for 

 a mallard to feed in. Days when it blows hard, and the 

 rough water on the open lake makes it difficult for a duck 

 to live in it, they resort to these sheltered places until the 

 wind subsides, as it generally does on these Western 

 prairies with the going down of the .sun. 



On one such day the writer might have been seen edg- 

 ing along under the shelter of the timber on the wind- 

 ward shore, keeping as much out of the wind as possible, 

 with decoys, shell box, lunch and gum-coat stowed in the 

 bow of the boat. Occasionally a snipe would flush as I 

 neared some point jutting out into the water, and after a 

 short, zig-zag flight, would drop down again. A dozen 

 mallards passed over from the direction of Bear Lake, 

 going at a terrific pace before the wind, and, swinging 

 around, settled into the rice toward which I was making. 

 Away off to the westward could be seen a flock of geese 

 straggling against the wind. At length I entered the rice 

 in the narrow arm of water, and pushing through it as 

 carefully as I could, I succeeded in getting to the other 

 side without putting up very many ducks. But the 

 instant I made my appearance on the other side scores 

 took wing at once. I lost no time in putting out the 

 decoys and getting into shape to receive the birds when 

 they returned. First came an incomer, an old mallard 

 diake, twisting his head first on one side, then on 

 the other, evidently undecided whether to alight or 

 not. He took a circle around the decoys and finally 

 swung into range. As I threw the gun quickly to my 

 face, he made an extraordinary effort to mount high in 

 the air; but it was too late, the gun spoke, and he came 

 down all in a heap. Instantly hundreds of well-concealed 

 ducks, whose presence I had been unaw r are of, sprang 

 into the air and made for the open lake, only to return 

 after making a short flight, for nothing with feathers 

 could live long on the wing in such a wind as was blow- 

 ing. First came eight mallards, going over and well out 

 of gunshot. Following them closely were four sprigtails, 

 flying to the left and well down. Catching sight of the 

 decoys, they swung around and prepared to settle. At 

 the report of the right barrel two pitched into a bunch of 

 rice; the left winged another. To say the remaining duck 

 was scared would be putting it very mild. In an amaz- 

 ing short space of time he was far over the marsh. There 

 was a good, open space of water around my blind, and I 

 let the ducks he where they fell, occasionally pushing out 

 to pick up one which had fallen upon its back— for ducks 

 will not decoy where the white breasts of dead ones lie 

 upturned on the water. At 4 o'clock the wind went 

 down. Huge banks of black clouds began to pile up in 

 the southwest, and, fearing a storm, I pulled for home 

 with a very fair bag of mallards, wigeons, sprigtails, and 

 others. 



Three miles east of the timber was a bie; slough, Bart 

 had told us, which was a good fly way for ducks when the 

 1 wind was right. There was a big pond in one end easily 



reached from the road which ran near it. Long Lake lay 

 over the hill from the pond about a mile, and in coming 

 from two smaller lakes to the southeast, the ducks, before 

 rising over the higher ground, would dip do^vn to this 

 pond. There was good cover, and with a few decoys one 

 might get good shooting, he thought. 



The weather had turned off pretty warm, and we had 

 been lying around the house most of the time. Time 

 began to hang heavily on our hands. The days of our 

 stay were numbered, and we were getting anxious for a 

 change in the weather that we might try this pond about 

 which there had been so much talk. Be ides, we wanted 

 a few birds for our friends at home, and unless it changed 

 colder it would be useless to shoot them, for they would 

 not keep well. 



Finally, one evening Bart came in and said: "Boys, 

 there's goin' to be a change in the weather, sure as shoot- 

 in', and in less than twenty-four hours, too, or I'm mis- 

 taken, and it strikes me I've been too long in these parts 

 to be fooled in weather signs." And even as he finished 

 speaking a gust of wind whistled around the corners of 

 the house and through the leafless branches of the trees 

 in the yard, announcing a sudden change. "There she 

 comes," remarked our host, as George made a break for 

 the door. "Ducks '11 be thicker 'n hah to-morrow." 

 George reported a few flakes of snow falling. "Now, 

 boys,'' said Bart, "I'm going to Currie in the mornin', 

 and if you fellers want to go to that slough I've been 

 blowin' to you about, come right along with me and I'll 

 drop you out there." The next morning we found the 

 ground white with snow and a few flakes still falling. 

 The sky was overcast; a high northwest wind was blow- 

 ing; no better day for duck shooting could have been 

 asked for. "If that slough keeps up her reputation to- 

 day you fellers '11 have a chance to burn powder enough 

 to last a year," remarked Bart, as we chmbed into the 

 wagon. In about an hour we hove in sight of the pond. 

 It was full of ducks that had dropped in out of the storm; 

 others were continually passing over. "Now, boys," said 

 Bart as he drove away. "I'll be along here about sundown 

 and I reckon you'll want some help, too, for the old 

 slough is going to be a hustler for ducks to-day." 



I got out the decoys as soon as I could, and waded out 

 to an old rat hut, which was entirely concealed by rashes, 

 and which made an excellent blind. George was in good 

 cover on the other side of the pond, about 200yds. from 

 me. The ducks flew as I never saw ducks fly before. The 

 decoys were scarcely of any use whatever, as the birds 

 seemed glad of a chance to drop down anywhere out of 

 the storm. The wind continued high all day, with a 

 flurry of snow along about 10 or 11 o'clock. Geese were 

 seen frequently, high on the wing, the \> -shaped order of 

 the flocks indicating a long flight. At noon we adjourned 

 for lunch, and, after a smoke, went back to our blinds. 

 At 4 o'clock I got off the hut and went up to the other 

 end of the slough, where I had a good open space of water 

 behind me. I was wise in doing this, as I lost fewer 

 ducks than if I had stayed at the old blind, where the 

 rushes were high and the water rather too deep to be 

 waded easily. There were many exhibitions of wretch- 

 edly poor shooting from both of us, and just yso, because 

 of the high wind that was blowing, and the terrific 

 pace with which the birds sometimes went before 

 it. Knocking down a poor, cramped-up pigeon thrown 

 from a trap at 18yds. is a vastly different tiling 

 from killing a duck flying like a cannon ball in 

 a high wind. A flock of prairie chickens flew 

 over the slough not over forty yards from either of 

 us. Away went four barrels after them, but not a 

 bird responded to the call. At sundown a flock of 

 brant went over, and I managed to fetch one out of the 

 flock. It came down into the water about a dozen yards 

 from where George stood. He waded out to retrieve it, 

 when the brant took wing and flew around him in a 

 circle. The old 10-bore cut loose twice, but the bird rose 

 high in the air and sailed away in the direction of the 

 sloughs to the southeast. I ran out of shells at dusk, and 

 turned my attention to picking up the birds. I never 

 saw wildfowl come into a slough thicker and faster than 

 they did on that memorable evening. They came appar- 

 ently from every direction, and dropped in anywhere 

 and everywhere. Finally the bright spot in the western 

 sky where the sun disappeared paled into twilight, and 

 the twilight deepened into darkness, and we carried our 

 birds out of the marsh to the road, which ran close by it. 

 and waited for Bart. But no sound of approaching 

 wheels greeted our ears, and after waiting a little while, 

 we shouldered our game and started. I never had but 

 one tramp, packing a load, that I remember any better 

 than I do the one that night, and that was once in Minne- 

 sota, a walk of three miles through prairie grass almost 

 waist deep, with twenty-eight large ducks and two brant, 

 a heavy gun and a hundred loaded shells, and so dark 1 

 could scarcely find my way. That was the night when 

 your humble servant was pretty near tuckered out. 



Fortunately we got a ride when about a mile from 

 home, and as the last mile is always the longest and hard- 

 est, the boost was most acceptable. Bart never turned up 

 till 10 o'clock that night. He said he could smell powder 

 and blood when hs came by the pond, and he "reckoned 

 as how thar might be two or three ducks less roostin' 

 around Bar Lakes." When invited to take a squint 

 around on the north side of the house where the bunches 

 were hanging, he was convinced that "thar was at least 

 thive less." 



Our bag that day was the largest of any during our 

 stay. We shot somewhere between ninety and a hundred, 

 bringing in eighty-three. They were all k nds— mallard, 

 redhead, widgeon, pintail, gadwall and teal, including 

 three brant and one Canada honker, the latter a contri- 

 bution from my genial friend George. 



We decided to put in one more day at the pond and 

 then start for home. Accordingly, the next day found us 

 at the old stand, but the ducks were by no means as 

 numerous as on the preceding day, and our bag was only 

 fair. 



The next day being the one set for our departure we 

 packed up and were taken to Balaton in time for the eve- 

 ning train. This was the beginning of the ending of two 

 of the pleasantest weeks I ever spent in ray life — two 

 weeks full of unalloyed sport and good feelings. The 

 weather was beautiful throughout nearly all of our stay 

 — almost too pleasant for good shooting. For Mr. Low 

 and his family I have only praises. They are whole- 

 souled, genial and accommodating; and I want to say in 

 passing that Mrs. Low can manufacture the best — mark 

 you, I say the best; — griddle cakes it has ever been my 



