Sept. io, 1904.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
221 
and then above the yellow blind marked the place where 
he was concealed, I now proceeded to look into the wel- 
come little red lunch box. 
Pete and Billy kept watchful eyes roving over the wide 
stretch of marsh, and suddenly the latter, holding his 
nose tight, Commenced a grunting series of quacks that 
sounded more like music from the stye than the voice of a 
respectable duck, But he made a brave effort, and, aided 
by Pete's more practiced and realistic calls, the four mal- 
lards that had been espied, came ori steadily toward the 
decoys. Two pale blue puffs of smoke arose from the 
distant blind, as both barrels spoke, and to each down 
whirled a duck, while Pete, in the other end of the boat, 
gave a sigh of satisfaction. "Look der !" he suddenly ex- 
claimed, "one of dem ducks is goin' to fall," and sure 
enough, a third bird after flying some little distance be- 
yond the blind, had collapsed into the marsh. "Better 
get dat crip, all right," said Pete, looking at me, and 
receiving an answer in the affirmative, we pushed out in 
the direction of the cripple. On coming up with him, no 
finishing shot was needed, and it proved to be a splendid 
drake mallard in perfect feather. 
Pete now proceeded to take out his tin lunch trunk; it 
could not be called much else, for it was always amply 
supplied with quantities of pickles, cold muskrats, ducks, 
and bread, from whieh he drew liberally when so inclined. 
Billy likewise carried a hearty supply of nourishment, 
and on opening the box that formed a seat for his boat, 
displayed a tempting array of juicy Baldwins, from which 
I was very glad to help myself. What other fruit could 
take the place of apples? Their external beauty and ap- 
pearance only add to the pleasure of eating that unexcelled 
flavor and substance within, and then to put one's nostrils 
close to the apple itself and sniff long the sweetest of 
orchards and blossoms, is an unfailing delight. So I sat 
on the stern of Pete's boat and ate apples, watching the 
Veteran pull a brace of ducks and sometimes more from 
nearly every flock that came to him, while single birds 
fared badly. It is always a pleasure, as well as a source 
of valuable instruction, for a novice to have the oppor- 
tunity of observing an experienced game shot making 
clean, quick, accurate kills, and it is more of a privilege 
and future benefit to have such a one for an instructor. 
"Pretty soon you see dem black ducks work round and 
give der boss a shot," remarked Pete, moving to a crouch- 
ing position in order to be well out of sight, and com- 
mencing to quack softly, while we peered out, watching 
closely the pair that were circling uncertainly near the 
decoys, but keeping out of range. "Now they's goin'," he 
muttered. "You fellers will ketch it in a minute. Ah, 
how's dat fer a bully shot, eh?"as at the reports from the 
blind, sharp and ringing, first one duck and then the other 
turned a Somersault and came twisting down. 
"He's wavin', so We push over and see what he want," 
remarked Pete, Suddenly, a short time later, and on near- 
ing the blind the Veteran stood up in the duck boat, say- 
ing, "Now you can get in here and shoot until toward 
the middle of the afternoon, then I'll come back and 
change places and stay till sundown." 
"All right," said I, in return, well pleased with the 
plan. "How many birds did you knock down?" 
■ "A dozen or so, I guess, he answered. "We must 
have twenty-five ducks all told," 
"You bet, an' more, too," put in Pete, who had been 
pushing around retrieving fallen birds, and laying them 
on the stern of his boat as one after the other they were 
picked up, shaken, and safely landed. 
For the second time we exchanged places, and here I 
was again comfortably ensconced waiting for the obliging 
duck that might choose to Come my way. He was not 
long in coming. I happened at the moment to be lying 
back in the boat, when "Mark overhead 1" from a distant 
voice caused me to start up and cautiously crane my neck 
around to look above, and with a whistling whirr of wings 
by went a black duck, but going so fast that I concluded 
to wait and let him work around again. At first I thought 
he intended to keep on going, but evidently not, for after 
taking a wide circle, he headed around in a favorable 
direction, coming up to the decoys away to the leeward. 
On he kept, and expecting he would swing around behind 
the blind and come in, I had my eye on him all the time, 
peering through the grass. Finally he turned and came 
as I had anticipated, but when within a short distance 
of the blind, directly behind me, he switched around and 
headed straight across from his previous line of flight. 
This was too much, and twisting around in a cramped, 
awkward position, I half raised up and pulled trigger as 
he passed behind on the right, and, to my surprise and 
pleasure, down he tumbled, with closed wings and limp 
form. This shot I enjoyed very much, not from the punch 
I received on the nose when firing in an unnatural posture, 
but from the thought of the three wily birds that had 
escaped previously and the satisfaction that for once an 
old dusky had been caught in practicing his wiles. 
Five widgeon — one of which I succeeded in wing-tip- 
ping, although there was a good chance to make a double 
— next came to the pond hole, and shortly -after a single 
spoonbill sailed in who threw back his wings and put 
forth his spreading orange feet in a slow assured manner 
as he prepared to alight leisurely -among the outside de- 
coys. But just at that instant I fired, and added another 
duck to the bag. Out of three scudding little green-wing 
teal, I knocked down one, but they came in much easier 
than the bunch that visited the decoys during the morn- 
ing, and were inclined to settle down on the further side 
of the hole, when a moment later this idea was rudely 
dispelled, as they rose again and passed bv on the 
left. 
The golden yellow of the marsh took on a deeper tint 
as the afternoon radiance of the sun streamed in from the 
west, and flocks of ducks were lifting more frequently 
from the various pond holes. I sat up for a time — that is, 
with my head above the screen — in order to better enjoy 
the picturesque outlook over the marsh, and incidentally 
to keep an eye out for any birds that might come my way. 
Finally five pintails that had been wheeling about uncer- 
tainly in evident search of a new feeding ground, headed 
up toward the decoys, and a minute later were sailing in, 
I picked out one just about to alight, and tumbled him 
over with the first barrel, but the second worked poorly, 
merely wing-tipping a bird that we never recovered. 
After this I bagged a half dozen or more ducks, and then, 
looking around, I perceived the V eteran and Pete pushing 
Over toward the blind, I was glad to exchange^laces 
with the former, for certainly I had more than a full 
share in the day's shooting. 
"Pete can push you over to the island, and when I come 
home in an hour or so, we'll stay out and perhaps pick up 
a few ducks flying over, toward dusk, if the wind blows," 
said the Veteran, as he pushed alongside of the duck boat, 
and, bidding au revoir to the scene of a pleasant and 
fruitful shoot, I stepped in Pete's boat. A few minutes 
later, after a short punt across the strip of marsh that in- 
tervened, I landed on the island. On the way across, we 
came on a crippled widgeon that allowed us to push quite 
close before jumping unexpectedly into the air. How- 
ever, I had a cartridge ready in case of such an emer- 
gency, and as he started up I managed to knock him 
down, this time for good. Pete had several of the ducks 
last shot in the boat, having left the remainder with Billy; 
these three I carried with me. Somehow it always was a 
source of enjoyment to take a little game along when 
homeward bound, and if the bag was small I liked to 
carry it all. The memory of two of the first ducks I ever 
shot will always remain vivid, and a good part of the 
pleasure connected with the episode was in carrying both 
home, triumphant and contented, in the dusk of an Octo- 
ber evening. Walking up the island, I experienced the 
same feeling of contentment that comes after a success- 
ful day afield, no matter where it may be, in woods, marsh 
or upland. 
"What luck?" questioned Al., as I entered the kitchen, 
after hanging the birds in a small woodshed that served 
as a rough but useful game larder. So I told him of the 
day's favorable outcome, and how much the lunch boxes 
had been appreciated. 
"Well, this is a pleasant place out here," he said, look- 
ing down the island from the doorway with an ill-con- 
cealed homesick expression. "Yes, I've had a very nice 
time worrying the days away," and at this I was forced 
to laugh outright, but it seemed to me that the ducks 
were about the only individuals that had "to worry the 
days away" in this country overflowing with a sportsman's 
milk and honey. 
When the big red disk of the setting sun was slowly 
sinking down behind the distant marsh, I saw the 
Veteran's figure walking up the island, and a short time 
later we were strolling back again, discussing the best 
location for our stands. Finally it was decided one of us 
would go down to the lower end while the other remained 
further up toward the cottage on an open piece of ground 
protected by a tall growth of underbrush on the west, and 
as this was the direction from which most of the ducks 
came, it formed all the concealment necessary. 
Leaving the Veteran here, I moved down a couple of 
hundred yards below him and took a stand in a thick 
clump of sumac, where I had a good view of the marsh 
and the glowing horizon. Off in the west was a rich band 
of orange-red sky, and a cool breeze carrying with it a 
frosty touch blew across the island, while the line of 
marsh land faded and grew more indistinct as I strained 
my eyes toward its broad expanse. Suddenly I espied a 
dark moving spot against the sunset glow. On it came, 
dodging and twisting, straight over the island; when 
nearly opposite I pulled up and fired, holding a long dis- 
tance ahead of the fast-going teal. But on he sped,_ if 
anything faster than before, disappearing in the darkening 
twilight like a dusky shadow. Rip ! Rip ! came two sharp 
cracks from up the island, and a second later there was a 
dull thud, as down came the Veteran's bird close to where 
he stood. 
For a second time I discovered three swift scudding 
forms coming my way, low down, and flying like animate 
bullets. They were on top of me before I realized it, > 
but just as they were going overhead, I succeeded in' 
bowling over one of the three, and down he came like a 
dark ball, striking the ground right by my feet, and 
bouncing quite a distance from the impetus of his flight. 
A minute after I knocked down this bluewing, a bunch 
of three or four more whirred past on the left, so close 
and so unexpectedly that both barrels went off into space. 
Several shots from the Veteran's location, followed by the 
sound of falling ducks, told their own tale, and once, 
looking up that way, I saw a bird come tumbling out of 
the air at such a height it seemed almost impossible that 
a load of shot could have pulled him down. The light 
was growing dimmer, and the forms of the birds melted 
more indistinctly into the fading sky, so when another 
teal—this time a single one — went by, presenting a cross 
shot just above the line of grass and bushes, it was in 
reality good luck that I happened to hold about right, apd 
bag him. But a few minutes before I was on the point 
of starting homeward, I noticed a duck coming up on the 
left, flying higher than most of the former birds. He 
offered a fair and tempting mark as he came within range, 
and, leading well ahead, I pulled trigger. With beating 
wings he came whirling down and landed in the grass 
quite near by. And then commenced a running match, 
for unfortunately he was only wounded, and made every 
endeavor to escape. Away he flopped, _ and _ I after him, 
falling into holes and tripping over briers in the tangle 
of thick undergrowth, made more impenetrable by the 
poor light. Finally I made a successful rush, and, nearly 
falling on top of the hard pressed duck, secured him 
safely. It proved to be a beautiful drake widgeon, and 
now, as the growing darkness made further shooting im- 
possible, I found my way out to the path, and walking 
up the island soon came on the Veteran, who was waiting 
for me. Four birds were scored to his bag of the evening, 
two heavy black ducks, one gadwall, and a spoonbill. 
Behind us, as we walked up the island, arose the round, 
bright face of the moon, shining with a yellow harvest 
brilliancy, and contrasting in beauty to the dull orange 
sunset still visible in the west. Here and there overhead 
the stars commenced to appear, faint points of burnished 
silver, and as we entered the warm, inviting interior of 
our shooting lodge with contented hearts, night was 
settling down in quiet peacefulness. Camilla. 
Doves in New Jersey. 
The dove is protected in New Jersey. It is included in 
the category of wild birds "other than a game bird," and 
as such may not be killed at any time. We understand 
that many shooters in New Jersey are killing doves this 
year; but in so doing they are violating the law. 
Handy Game Carriers. 
Miles of columns of matter have been published on the 
subject of the proper clothing for the shooter. Garments 
are made which consist of a lot of pockets and a few 
brass buttons, good enough for those who fancy going 
into the woods in stuffy armor, but not satisfactory to the 
squirrel shooter. He leans toward old trousers or 
knickerbockers, a cap or small hat of neutral tint, and 
some sort of footgear in which he can slip about without 
upsetting all the loose stuff in the woods. A flannel shirt 
of no special color completes the rig, and it is sufficient. 
Equipped thus, with only the rifle to carry, the first 
squirrel or grouse he shoots is easily taken care of; but 
when a second and a third are added to the string, it be- 
comes a bit awkward, for the feathery or furry legs have 
a way of slipping out of one's hand, and whenever an- 
other shot is to be fired, it is necessary to drop _the_ string 
somewhere in the grass, and pick up each individual 
again after the additional meat is secured or missed. 
Stringing bloody game on the belt has its disadvantages, 
and, in my opinion, no better method can be employed 
than that so often followed by the backwoodsmen of the 
Southwest. For the benefit of those who are not familiar 
with this plan, a description will not be out of place. 
Take one of the middle toes of a hindfoot in the left 
hand, and with the right split the toes on either side 
down an inch or so. Then slip the point of a knife-blade 
under the tendon of the middle toe and push a bit of 
string through, tie a knot in the string, and you have a 
handy carrier. When other meat comes your way, add 
it in the same manner. The tendons of a squirrel's foot 
are tough as wire, and will not tear out in carrying. Very 
many of the old squirrel shooters of the backwoods cut a 
strip of bark for this purpose from willow, elm, or other 
trees that have tough inner bark. A willow, sassafras or 
apple sprout will, also answer the purpose, but the 
handiest thing I ever used was a strip of belt-lacing 
leather, one end of which was cut rather thin, to be handy 
in slipping the thong through the opening made with the 
knife-blade under the tendon; but both ends can be 
tapered, while the middle of the strap may be left a half- 
inch or so in width. The thong need only be a foot or 
fifteen inches in length, and when a squirrel is added to 
the string, a common square knot or a" granny knot will 
hold until there is another addition. Being full of oil, 
this lacing leather will not knot hard, like cord. 
Rabbits, grouse, or other small game may be treated in 
the same manner as squirrels for carrying, and I know < of 
no cleaner way of lugging the game about while hunting 
than this. 
This belt-lacing leather is valuable in other ways, too; 
and every outer should carry two or three thongs to the 
woods with him. It may be used for sling straps for 
guns ; for repairing a broken gun-stock or canoe paddle, 
etc. ; in fact, in numerous ways. Cow-punchers often have 
two or three of these thongs tied to- their saddles for 
emergency use, and it is surprising how often they find 
them handy in making hurried repairs. 
Perry D. Frazer. 
A Minnesota Memory. 
When one meets an old friend, he always extends the 
hardy and horny right hand of fellowship, and if they are 
in each other's company for any length of time, they in- 
variably refer to some things that happened in bygone 
days — things brought to mind by the meeting, and prob- 
ably never thought of for years. Such was the case with 
myself yesterday. Being at leisure the other day, I con- 
cluded to clean my artillery- I have two pieces in the bat- 
tery, representing the heavy and the light. The heavy 
consists of a .45-90 single shot Winchester that has seen 
service for quite a number of years, and was the pride of 
my heart until I found another love in the shape of a 
.30 Government Winchester, since which time the "heavy 
artillery" branch of the service has been kept in the scab- 
bard, and treated as an old and trusted friend; kept on 
account of the many scenes of pleasure with which it has 
been associated, it having been my "good pard" in many a 
good hunt. While cleaning the heavy artillery, I stood 
full in front of a mounted moose head — one I had killed 
with the old gun in '97 near the headwaters of the Co- 
quet River, in St. Louis county, Minn. 
The gun and the trophy taken together started me 
thinking of those hunts in the grand old State, and the 
capture of this trophy in particular, which took place on 
the first day of November, in '97, after a long day's tramp, 
as much for pleasure as hunting. I had started at eight 
in the morning to locate a good moose ground, and after 
spending the time until about three o'clock searching^ for 
the proper place, I concluded to look up the barrens — i. e., 
where the fire had destroyed the large timber — for it is 
there that the large game is mostly congregated after the 
freezing weather comes on. It was only a short distance; 
and although it would throw me about eight miles from 
the railroad and nearly fifty from any other kind of a 
road, it was near the Breda River, which would be good 
for a hand-sled or toboggan, and make the work of get- 
ting in and out very easy compared with other places. 
About half-past three I reached the barrens and found 
plenty of signs of moose and deer. Being pretty well 
fagged, I sat down at the edge of a clump of brush to 
rest and smoke, intending to make a start for home so 
soon as the smoke was finished. I had been thus occupied 
for about ten minutes, when I spied a black spot on the 
opposite hillside, which looked as if it might be alive. 
After a few minutes, it moved, and I saw it was a moose, 
but whether cow or bull I could not tell. I took chances 
on its being a bull, and brought up the artillery and got 
ready for action. After deciding the distance to be about 
500 yards, I took careful aim at the top of the shoulders, 
and fired. It seemed to be several seconds before the 
bullet reached the mark, but when it did, I knew that the 
work had been fairly done. The moose gave a great 
bound and disappeared in the strip of brush at the brow 
of the hill near which it had been standing. When I 
reached the spot, I found nothing to indicate that the 
bullet had found the mark. The track was plain, and 
after about thirty yards I came to the victim, dead. The 
wound was just behind the shoulder.. 
One who has taken a hand at dressing so large an ani- 
mal, knows what a job I had on my hand. They also 
