12 
FOREST AND STREAM 
January, 1922 
ICE BOUND ON GREAT SOUTH BAY 
THE LOG OF THE SHARPIE NOAH ON HER PERILOUS CRUISE O’ER LAND 
AND SEA TO THE DUCKING GROUNDS OF LONG ISLAND— PART TWO 
A S I look over this journal I seem to 
/\ feel again all the cold, all the 
^ downright privation of that win- 
ter on South Bay. I have a guilty 
sensation of forcing the reader to share 
with me the discomforts of that time, 
as though, living it over myself, I am 
furthermore dragging some innocent 
party out to the icy beach. Never a day 
seemed to come but we found the ice an 
inch or so thicker, the sharpie more firm- 
ly imbedded in the solid mass about us. 
During all this time but one open space 
of water remained, and why, unless in- 
fluenced by some warm springhole, this 
tiny spot should have kept from freezing 
I am sure I cannot say. It was in the 
mouth of a narrow gut leading in to the 
Cedar Island marsh. We only discov- 
ered it through somebody else’s prior 
discovery, and this was made known to 
us by the steady crack, crack of a busy 
gun coming down to us on the wind one 
evening as we stood gloomily scanning 
the ice. Needless to say, we promptly 
investigated. We investigated several 
times, always to find the hole preempted. 
I believe that gunner slept in the marsh, 
jealously guarding his find. At last, one 
day, we beat him to it ; I suppose he’d 
gone home to eat a meal or, perhaps, to 
change his clothes. At all events, we 
got there first and quickly set out our 
decoys. 
I have since shot on one of the great- 
est ducking grounds of the world, and 
I have seen ducks by the millions ; been 
kept awake by their noisy feeding and 
heard the roar of them like a breaking 
surf when they rose from the celery 
beds, but never have 
I seen more ducks 
to a given area than 
I did that first morn- 
ing on Cedar Island 
when we hauled 
across to the marsh. 
Literally, that bit of 
water was packed 
with them. They 
jostled sides; they 
overlapped each 
other — black - duck, 
mallard, brant, and 
I know not what. 
As soon as we had 
set out — and the 
ducks were continu- 
ally swishing about 
our heads as we fum- 
bled the stool in our 
hurry — the shooting 
began. And ’ivhat 
shooting ! We had 
no time to hide our 
boat ; we didn’t have 
to. Pete sat bolt up- 
right in one end, I 
in the other — and 
By ROLAND CLARK 
Illustrations by the Author 
we whanged away till our gun barrels 
scorched us; till the last of our ammu- 
nition was gone and the freezing sleet 
had nearly finished us. Then, and not 
till then, we gave up and pushed out to 
collect our ducks. I shan’t say how 
many we had ; I am not sure at this late 
date of the exact number — and my diary 
may be in error. There were, however, 
enough to make up for quite a few days 
of inaction. I think nearly all of them 
found their way to somebody’s table, 
and we on the sharpie “lived high” for a 
while with a varied choice to pick from, 
but we never got to that glorious air hole 
again. Twice we started, only to find 
that someone — probably Old Stingy him- 
self — had arrived ahead of us, and finally 
this tiny wonder-water froze as solid as 
the world about it. At last came that 
inevitable night, or day, when my two- 
bushel purchase of coal went the way of 
all good anthracite and Peter stared 
dismally into the future and generally 
cussed his luck. 
I hate repetition and exaggeration, but ; 
I must say I believe it was colder that 
day than it ever had been before or ever , 
will be again. We didn’t have a pint of 
coal ! “Pete,” I groaned, as the night 
shut in and we sat burning sodden bits 
of driftwood in the lukewarm little stove 
— “Pete, there comes a time in the affairs 
of all men when — Get that old potato 
bag ! I cannot see you suffer !” Dumbly 
Pete followed me across the ice. Up the 
bank, to the line of cottages topping Oak | 
Island, we climbed with never a word. 
In the rear of one of them stood a large i 
piano box. It held no secrets from me. 
Breathing a prayer for forgiveness, I 
turned to the wondering Pete. “We are t 
now going to steal some coal, Pete,” I ; 
whispered. “If you have any scruples in 
the matter just leave the whole thing to , 
me.” Pete hurried to open the bag. | 
Twice we filled it, staggering back to 
the sharpie with our precious load be- 
tween us. I shall never forget Pete’s 
sigh of relief as we dumped the last bag 
in the hold. 
Now I want to say here that I am still 
prepared to pay for that coal (at the old | 
prices, mark you) if the damaged party | 
presents a bill. I can do no more than ' 
this. I 
A DAY borrowed from April ! Sun- 
shine and shower — the mutter of 
distant thunder; high-banked clouds lift- 
ing” out of the sea. A day of brooding 
shadows and sparkling light ; a day, 
above all, of blessed warmth after all 
that bitter frost ! It crept straight in to 
one’s long-chilled bones and transformed 
an ice-bound world ! 
After all, it zvas 
good to be alive — a 
pleasure even to 
scrap with Pete over 
smudy pots and 
pans. 
Two days we had 
of balmy respite, 
days that Pete and I 
employed in giving 
the poor old Noah 
and all his contents, 
including ourselves, 
a much-belated 
scouring. Once fin- 
ished, it gave us a di f- 
ferent view-point of 
life. We felt cheered 
to the point of renew- 
ing acquaintance 
with our friends 
across the beach. In 
accordance with 
kindly custom we 
were asked to sup- 
per at the Life Sav- 
ing Station that 
night and regaled 
Setting out decoys in pleasant anticipation of a good day’s sport 
