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DUCKS IN OLD RICE 
FIELDS 
{Continued from page 533) 
marsh, however, soon opened before us. 
Pulse-stirring sounds, moreover, were 
borne to me over the grassy bank. A 
lusty old mallard was warning his com- 
panions of my approach. He told them., 
I know, that trouble was brewing for 
the Salt Pond ducks that day. Then, to 
show them that he, as least, had no idea 
of furnishing any of the amusement, he 
rose with a noisy clatter of wings and 
left for parts unknown. 
We hauled over the hank a little 
further on and there was our pond. 
Sam, accustomed, of course, to the sight 
of many ducks, seemed unmoved by the 
picture before us. I might exaggerate 
if I said there were a thousand ducks 
in that little pond; again I might he 
falling short of the number. At all 
events, there was a downright heap of 
ducks. Our blind lay on the opposite 
hank — easily reached from the check- 
hank, so I made my way around on foot, 
leaving Sam to pole the skiff across. 
It had been a long paddle and we were 
somewhat late. Already Brayton had 
opened the ball. Chapman and Spears 
had doubled up this morning and were 
carrying on a fusilade at the other side 
of the marsh. 
Many of the ducks we had moved 
from our pond were still sailing about in 
detached bunches. I could, I am sure, 
have made a very decent bag on my 
walk around to the blind. The flocks 
were, for the most part, too large to^ 
shoot into, however, and I steeled my- 
self to patience, waiting for Sam and 
the decoys. 
Would he never come? Was I to 
tramp up and down that bank indefi- 
nitely, with the banging of other men’s 
guns in my ears and myriads of ducks 
passing over my head? At last! the 
swish of the paddle, the crackle of 
crushed saw-grass and Sam heaves in 
sight around the bend. 
Out go the decoys; first the wooden 
ones, then a half dozen live mallards, 
tugging fiercely at their anchors as Sam 
drops them overboard. I note that Sam 
keeps one eye on me as he hurries with 
the decoys, and I reassure him some- 
what by standing my gun in the corner 
of the blind while he finishes setting out. 
T early found that Salt Pond was, for 
that day at least, distinctly a mallard 
rendezvous. Other varieties of duck, 
sprig, gadwall, now and then a spoon- 
l:)ill or hlue-wing, passed by the edge of 
my blind; hut invariably they had busi- 
ness elsewhere and merely gave my lay- 
out a good look over. But, ye gods ! 
the mallards ! How they poured into 
that pond ! By the time our stage was 
set and ready, a great number of ducks 
had already settled at the farther end 
of the open water. These T made Sam 
rout out at the start. They swept over 
me, past me — almost through the top of 
my blind, and T will always recall, with 
a certain satisfaction, that I let that 
avalanche of mallards pass over me 
without raising gun to shoulder. “Don’t 
shoot into the big hunches” — had I been! 
stupid enough to want to, the unwrittei 
law of the Merry Bell marsh must havi 
stopped me, after all. My reward cami' 
quickly. In my “duck diary” I hav(‘|, 
written the epitaph of three mallards ir‘ 
these terse terms : ^ 
“3 Mallards. Right and left — loading 
and dropping third with choke hi. at 6( 
yards.” 
The way of it was this : I turned mj 
gaze from the great flock, now fai | 
across the marsh, to find three big mal- , 
lard drakes directly over the decoys. 
Before I could reach my gun one ol 
the trio had lit almost at the foot of the j 
blind. As I rose, the other two swerved, i 
up and off, at a most disconcerting] 
angle. Now, remembering that old] 
greenhead in front of me, I know I 
hoped to get those two ducks with mj 
first barrel. I must have hoped to — but 
did I do it? I did not. A right and 
left, however, brought them somersault- 
ing down into the maze of saw-grass 
behind me. Then, rocketing up within 
a yard or two of the blind — so close 
that I could almost have touched him 
with my gun muzzles — the third of our 
little party. I know I could have lost 
but scant time in opening my gun and 
jamming a single cartridge in the 
chamber. I know, too, that that fright- 
ened mallard was perilously near the 
limit of range when I drew down on his 
white tail feathers. “There 1 Got him !” 
I’m talking to myself. “Pretty good, if 
I do say it. P-r-e-t-t-y good !” I’m 
vain enough to wish some appreciative 
sportsman could have seen that bit of 
marksmanship. After all, it wasn’t so 
hard to get ’em if you knew how. 
Oh pride, pride, that goeth before a 
fall 1 I am crouched in the front of the 
blind again. There are ducks to the 
right of me, ducks to the left of me. 
They are slanting down to the decoys 
from either side. That pair on the left 
are over first, my best chance. I have 
already counted them in with the bag. 
Practically speaking, they are mine. . . . 
But I pause to explain that there is a 
certain peculiar shifting motion which 
a duck will sometimes make. It’s some- 
thing between a spin and a glide — every 
duck-shooter knows what I mean — and 
ducks that have acquired this little trick 
make disappointing targets. Strangely 
enough, my mallards had both learned 
it, and naturally — Well, doggone it all, | 
I missed them! ( ! ! ! ! !} j 
Further talk, addressed to myself. 
Promises that this sort of thing shan’t 
occur again; business of reloading and 
getting ready for what next may come 
along. 
“Scape ! Scape !” — alluring note, soft 
Amice of the marsh at break of day. ‘ 
“Scape!” that bra\'e little challenge; ' 
and straightAvay a tiny Avhisp of broAvn, , 
diving, dipping — lost in the shrouding ^ 
Avillows. I was tempted to try a long- 
shot at that snipe: glad tlie next mo- ; 
ment 1 hadn’t, for he appeared to herald ' 
the return flight of ducks, to Salt Pond 
— a flight that I shall remember for 
many and many a day. Never have I ' 
seen ducks decoy better; never had such 
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