November, 1922 
480 
Joe was always ready to go for ducks 
alluring, far-reaching call of a mallard 
drake, followed by a gentle, satisfied 
feeding gabble — in almost absolute ac- 
curacy — tempted the leader of the flock. 
He gave the signal and his command 
rushed downwards to circle the decoys. 
“Steady,” Joe whispered. “Let them 
come in.” 
I remained motionless and Joe re- 
sumed his gentle quacking. The wily old 
leader completed his circle. As with 
out-thrust and beating wings the ducks 
checked their speed, I arose and gave 
them two barrels. Then I took Joe’s 
gun, which he was endeavoring to thrust 
into my hands, only to finish a hard-hit 
cripple. In that flock when first I sighted 
them there had been five ducks and now 
they lay before us on the bosom of the 
lagoon, a tribute to Joe’s splendid calling 
and my good fortune. 
U NTIL the morning was half spent 
the ducks continued to come in, but 
invariably thereafter in singles and pairs. 
Then the wind dropped and after a time 
the sun struggled through the clouds and 
shone warmly upon the marshland. A 
line of pelicans floated indolently over- 
head, and where the receding tide had 
bared the silt poule d’eau were holding 
noisy revel. Far overhead great flocks 
of ducks were flying toward the Gulf 
to spend the remainder of the day in idle 
gossip and contentment on the sand bars 
at the river’s mouth. 
With a grunt of disgust, Joe arose and 
after a moment announced: “Twent’- 
t’ree duck down now. Dat sun is too 
bad. Ten minutes longer we have the 
other two.” 
“Never mind, Joe,” I consoled him. 
“I am more than satisfied. But if you 
must round it out, take a shot at those 
poules d’eau on the bar over there.” 
“Poule d’eau?” he repeated disgusted- 
ly. “W’at you want wit’ heem?” 
“Well, to be exact,” I returned, “I 
have no particular use for him unless 
he can do duty in the fry-pan.” 
“Fry heem?” Joe’s gesture was ex- 
pressive of extreme abhorrence. “Le 
bon dieu ! There is but one way to eat 
heem and that is stew ! Fry heem ! 
Man, he ees like my rubber boot.” 
I blenched. I had suddenly remem- 
A good day’s bag 
bered that the skipper, pleading weari- 
ness after a strenuously successful day’s 
shooting, had announced his intention 
of devoting at least a part of this morn- 
ing to the pursuit of the poules d’eau, 
and he being a devotee of the indiges- 
tion-breeding skillet, it was reasonably 
certain that our luncheon would run 
mainly to the lowly coot in its most in- 
digestible state. 
A prey to this fear, I arose and as- 
sisted in retrieving the ducks. They 
made an imposing array in the bow of 
the pirogue, but we found them not al- 
together an unmixed blessing, as their 
weight, combined with the rapid ebbing 
of the tide that had all but bared the 
silt throughout the entire lagoon, made 
our homeward progress agonizingly 
slow; we were a full hour in negotiating 
the half mile that separated us from the 
bayou. 
I FOUND Jacques on deck, dexterously 
hewing several cleaned and plucked 
poules d’eau into halves. Seeing me he 
held up a pan full of birds for my in- 
spection and announced the piece de re- 
sistance of our luncheon. 
Foreseeing this moment I had lunched 
with Joe on board his snug houseboat, 
so I surveyed the piece de resistance 
The Gabrielle landing the duck hunters 
without animosity and merely expressed 
a wish that the skipper would not bother 
to prepare any lunch for me. A storm 
of argument greeted my words. Poule 
d’eau was just like fried duck; it was 
delectable. 
“Poule d’eau,” I remarked pedanti- 
cally, “is unfit for food save when 
stewed in the Creole fashion. Le bon 
dieu!” I finished triumphantly, “Fried, 
he is like my rubber boot.” 
Jacques glanced at me suspiciously. 
“But don’t let me hinder you from try- 
ing them a la skillet,” I remarked po- 
litely. 
“We won’t,” he assured me coldly, and 
turned back to his task. 
Joe appeared with my ducks, cleaned 
and ready for the ice. He glanced at the 
absorbed Jacques and winked at me. 
“Poule d’eau,” he said in his soft 
voice, “are good when stewed only.” 
“I prefer them fried,” Jacques re- 
torted stubbornly. “If there is one thing 
in the food line that I am really fond of, 
it is the leg of a poule d’eau fried to a 
golden brown.” 
“You have eat’ them, then?” Joe asked 
mischieveously. 
“Many times,” Jacques lied unblush- 
ingly. “It is my favorite dish.” 
He arose without answering and car- 
ried the halved birds to the galley, from 
whence, a few moments later, came the 
cheery sounds of sizzling fat. 
“In the interests of humanity, Joe,” I 
said, “it would be advisable to put on a 
stew. Now, if you will instruct me — ” 
We prepared it thus — a truly delec- 
table dish: 
Into one tablespoonful of hot fat put 
one minced onion and a piece of garlic 
the size of a pea, also finely minced and 
brown. Add a level tablespoonful of 
flour, stir it thoroughly and brown. Add 
two quarts of water, one can of tomato 
or tomato paste and one can of okra. 
Add the poules d’eau chopped into pieces 
of convenient size. Season with red 
pepper and salt to taste. Simmer one 
and one-half hours or until the meat is 
tender. Thicken and serve with rice. 
We placed this concoction upon Joe’s 
stove and returned to the boat to await 
events. In due course, Walter, our genial 
factotum, appeared from the depths and 
announced that lunch was ready. We 
(Continued on page 517) 
