February, 1922 
FOREST AND STREAM 
57 
sat up with the same air of expectation 
when he rushed breathlessly into the 
. room, his face flushed, his eyes glowing. 
“Get your heavy clothes, quick ! Get 
your guns and plenty of shells !” 
“What’s up?” we voiced with brewing 
excitement. 
“Ducks — hundreds of them — and can- 
' vas-backs !” 
The last remark which came in gasps 
from a voice spent from much running 
was sufficient . to send us scurrying for 
our heavy clothes and guns with feelings 
iof unrestrained excitement. Only a few 
imoments elapsed before we were stum- 
-ilbling over the frozen ground of a wheat 
. field in the face of a biting northwest 
gale. Long John, in the lead, headed for 
■ a slight eminence on the east shore of the 
cove. The rest of us followed in single 
file, silent and expectant. As we ap- 
- proached the shore our guide bent low 
and headed for a little clump of water- 
i myrtle which formed a screen or natural 
blind back of a low section of the shore 
line. 
We proceeded cautiously, with our 
bodies close to the ground and our eyes 
■ intent upon the bright strip of ice that 
mfolded itself beyond . the fringe of 
ivater-myrtle. Suddenly, Long John 'pros- 
' mated himself full length, signalled can- 
non, and commenced squirming forward 
'!jto the protection of the thicket. We did 
"■‘rkewise and after snaking our way 
"Ithrough a greenbrier patch and two 
"nowdrifts, eventually reached the place 
pf concealment without exposing our- 
selves. 
A remarkable sight met the gaze of 
) four pairs of eager eyes. Out in front 
\ stretched the frozen surface of Wood- 
and Creek. This beautiful little water- 
Aray with its broad, winding stretches 
ind its shallow, secluded bays, well de- 
serves the name of Woodland. Its 
shores are fringed with native juniper 
vhose deep green foliage gives an air 
)f richness to the quiet shores. There 
^ ire oaks and gums and great weather- 
" scarred pines and close to the water’s 
^dge the tawny sedge crowds the water- 
nyrtle for position — an ideal place for 
, lucks in the winter months and favor- 
te water for the striped bass in the 
spring and fall. 
The cove is all but estranged from its 
arger parent, the Miles River, by a long 
^ sand spit which runs south from the 
Wye Town shore to a deep, narrow tide- 
. run off the Pickbourne shore. The 
. iraried texture and uneven conformation 
if the ice which filled the space between 
f(,i :he near shore and the opposite strip of 
sand showed the influence of a strong 
vind and a capricious tide. At first an 
mbroken expanse presented itself, but 
. IS we craned our necks Tiigher over the 
■ intervening promontory of the shore 
line there appeared under our very noses 
1 narrow strip of open water. 
“Gee whiz !” gasped Searls. 
“Gosh !” came a tense whisper from 
Dick, synchronous with a double click 
which told us that the old ten was 
^ cocked and ready, 
al 
T hat strip of open water was fairly 
alive with ducks. There, directly 
in front, not sixty feet away, was a lit- 
tle bunch of whistlers playing about and 
splashing in absolute oblivion of any 
threatening danger. Off to the right a 
flotilla of butter-balls was pushing 
against the tide in search of new feed- 
ing grounds, its members going under at 
intervals, either singly or in groups, to 
lirowse about among the oyster spat and 
choice water weeds. They bobbed up 
and down on the wind-roughened sur- 
face like so many brightly colored corks, 
their sharp markings of black and white 
sparkling in the long rays of the after- 
noon sun. Black-heads were every- 
where, single birds and small groups. 
A canvas-back 
mingling in the most intimate manner, 
with the other species; always restless, 
usually diving, and ever on the alert. 
This gay assemblage of waterfowl, all 
apparently content in a sense of abso- 
lute security yet all within easy range 
of our loaded guns, was favored only 
with a transient glance of appraisal 
from eyes fascinated by a sight of 
greater moment. 
Canvas-backs ! Thirty-two of the 
beauties ! What a sight to feast upon ! 
Never before had we seen canvas-backs 
in Woodland Creek, although we had 
often heard the Colonel tell of the great 
flocks of these fowl that used to fre- 
quent the waters of the cove back in the 
old plantation days. Then the long, 
cumbersome, single shot, muzzle-loading 
flintlock fowling piece gave the ducks 
an even chance with the gunner — a 
chance which they rarely have to-day 
with the pump-gun and the automatic 
shotgun to swing the odds against them. 
But if there are unscrupulous gunners 
in these days they also haunted the 
shores in the good old days; we remem- 
ber that the Colonel used to tell us of 
the dissension caused in the ranks of his 
nine hundred and ninety-nine slaves by 
the continued diet of diamond-back ter- 
rapin and canvas-back duck. 
There they were bunched together at 
the southern extremity of the lead, their 
long, tapering heads of reddish brown 
sunk into the thick black collars about 
their necks; their shapely backs of soft 
gray forming distinctive patches against 
the dark-blue water. They swung laz- 
ily in the tide like so many tiny ships at 
anchor; not particularly interested in 
the quest of food or in any intimate in- 
vestigation of their immediate surround- 
ings. One of the number was peace- 
fully seated upon an edge of the ice, ap- 
parently asleep. Another was striving 
awkwardly to join the slumbering one. 
A hoarse grating “quack, quack” came 
at intervals from the midst of this 
peaceful group. 
Suddenly, as if at a given signal, the 
long necks raised, the heads turned ex- 
citedly from side to side and the fleet 
started, full steam ahead, in the direc- 
tion of our blind. 
We crouched in bundles of tense ex- 
citement, hardly daring to breathe lest 
we divert the favorable course of the 
disturbed flock. I felt that same thrill 
of excitement experienced when a “big 
one” has yanked at the bait and I am 
waiting for the final tightening of the 
line. As the flock came fairly within 
range this spirited conversation in low 
whispers ensued : 
“Ready, boys? Let’s over the top and 
give it to ’em.” 
“Hold on ! What do you think we 
are, a bunch of Huns?” 
“We never had such a chance before, 
we’ll sure get the big laugh if we let 
such a fine bunch sneak out from under 
our guns.” 
“We can’t shoot ’em sittin’, there’s no 
sport in that, besides it don’t give ’em a 
fair chance.” 
T he righteous indignation of the 
sportsmen of the party soon per- 
suaded the rest of us into a better con- 
ception of fairness. It was agreed that 
we should rise simultaneously, advertise 
our presence with a shout and then nail 
our birds as they cleared the water. But, 
alas, our plan never matured. With a 
great splash and beating of wings the 
splendid flock arose, followed at close 
intervals by smaller flocks of smaller 
birds. They were a grand sight as they 
climbed over the air against the strong 
wind. We were caught in the final ad- 
justments for the assault. Confusion 
and consternation followed. 
Bang ! Bang ! went the ten. 
Bang ! pause — Bang ! pause — curses — 
more curses — and still more curses came 
from Searls and his pump-gun. 
My sixteen joined the uproar a little 
late, pumping- useless shot in the direc- 
tion of the rapidly retreating beauties. 
The echoing roar of Long John’s single 
(Continued on page 86) 
