Vol XCII 
DECEMBER, 1922 
No. 12 
DUCKS IN OLD RICE FIELDS 
SPORT ON THE WIDE MARSHES OF MERRY BELL PLANTATION 
WHEN WILD-FOWL CUP THEIR WINGS AND DROP TO STOOL 
By ROLAND CLARK 
Illustrations by the Author 
That breathless moment 
W E stood on the porch of an old, 
old house; a house of mellow- 
toned bricks and high set 
dormers. Roses bloomed at the 
lattices, reaching up to spread their 
tracery along the low hung caves. 
Flanked by giant live oaks and 
patriarchal cedars, its open 
doors suggesting an ocean of 
hospitality and good cheer, it 
stood high above the sur- 
rounding marsh. 
A wondrous domain lay at 
our feet. Here the lazy 
Cooper wound its way be- 
tween willow-fringed banks, 
to lose itself at last in the dis- 
tant line of woods. Old rice 
fields, once the pride and 
mainstay of Merry Bell plan- 
tation, still strove to main- 
tain existence despite the en- 
croaching saw-grass that 
sprang up on every side. 
Shallow streams flowed in 
and out between the grassy 
banks; little bays, dotted 
about with clumps of matted 
rushes; patches of mud and 
water plant — flat stretches of 
mud jutting out from the line 
of shore. 
A wondrous domain, did I 
say? It seemed all of that to 
me. My host was pointing- 
down to a tiny blind in one of 
the near-by field. “That,” said 
he, “is yours for to-mor- 
row ; new this year but I guess 
you’ll have some fun.” I 
looked; then, I believe, I 
pinched myself. Yes, I was 
wide awake. 
Those things milling about in the 
mud were ducks, a whole generation 
of them ; more ducks than I’d ever 
imagined could collect in one small spot. 
I felt like saying, “Why, old man, have 
you elected to give me this blind which 
trim necks stretched out like race horses, 
swept in from the reddening west; now 
it was a single black-duck, vacillating, 
cautious, doubting just a little that 
isolated thatch of grass. A rush of 
wings overhead — Gad ! how close they 
were ! — and pitching, soaring, 
nose-diving — a great line of 
belated ringnecks. Quickly 
they passed ; swept down and 
up again ; then off to some 
flooded rice field, perhaps, 
miles on miles away. The sky 
line was a veritable panorama 
of moving ducks. We 
watched them ’till the sun 
dropped below the d'stant 
woods and the fading light 
put an end to our gazing. 
I could write feelingly and 
at some length of the indoor 
hospitality of Merry Bell 
plantation. Tell how, on re- 
turning to the house that 
night — and on other nights 
as well — there was, first the 
pleasant tinkle of ice — but 
there ! what was I about to 
say? This is straight duck 
shooting stuft and as such I 
shall try hereafter to keep to 
the letter of the law. 
'THE picture of that first 
t morning in the plantation 
g'un-room is indelibly fixed in 
my mind. Four eager sports- 
men surrounded on all sides 
by impedimenta of the chase: 
guns, cartridge cases, boxes, 
coats and sundry trapjiings. 
In a far corner my good 
friend Spears, struggling with a balky 
boot. Curses from Spears ! Cheers, 
jeers, from the assembled company! 
Chapman yelling lustily for a missing 
case of shells! “Come on; let's get 
started,” from H. L. "It’s almost light” 
— and we grab our guns and ammuni- 
all the ducks in South Carolina have 
decided to patronize?” Honest, I felt 
just that way about it. Ducks ! a very 
multitude of them were paddl’ng about 
in the mud on all sides of that blind. 
We were too far away to make out 
their coloring but the intermittent 
quacks that rose to us on the light air 
told part, at least, of the story. 
There were ducks coming in in flocks, 
pairs, two’s — singles. These were easily 
distinguishable against the evening sky. 
Here a little bunch of pintails, their 
