October, 1920 
FOREST AND STREAM 
537 
HOW THE LITTLE GREEN WING DIED 
CONCERNING AN EPISODE WHICH HAPPENED IN THE FALL OF 1870 WHILE SHOOT- 
ING ON BARNEGAT BAY NEAR THE FAMOUS WILD-FOWLER’S RESORT OF ORTLEY 
By WIDGEON 
M Y Uncle William had no children, 
and lived in rural comfort with 
Aunt Eliza on his fine farm which 
he had leased, thereby giving him plenty 
of leisure time. He had numerous 
nephews, but I seemed to have been the 
favorite one for two reasons : I was very 
independent, never asked him for favors, 
and I loved the rod and gun, of which he, 
too, was very fond. So there grew up a 
“comradie” between the old man and the 
boy that endured until death parted them. 
Many a happy day we spent together and 
many were the large bags of game and 
strings of fish we brought home from our 
outings. Like many childless men he was 
at times harsh, eccentric and erratic, and 
very excitable, but he had a heart of gold. 
He was as much interested in my youth- 
ful successes as if I had been his own son, 
and sad, indeed, for me was the day when 
I laid Uncle William away for his long 
sleep. 
Uncle’s farm and my father’s joined, 
and almost every evening of his life he 
would walk down the path between, and 
stooping his giant form to enter the door- 
way, would sit for an hour or so and then 
go home again. One evening he said: 
“Henry, I feel like going to Ortley. Can 
you spare Neil for a couple of weeks?” 
Father smilingly looked at me and said: 
“Why I guess so.” So we arranged to 
start next morning. 
Then all was a bustle of preparation. 
Dear mother brought out my warmer un- 
derwear and shootings togs, while I, from 
my closet, brought forth my proudest pos- 
session, the genuine Joe Manton fowling 
piece, my indulgent father had bought for 
me that summer. As I took the gun from 
its case, I gloated over it like a young 
mother over her first babe. Carefully I 
wiped the burnished barrels, that then 
looked so symmetrical and beautifully 
proportioned, and still looks graceful, in 
comparison with the hammerless guns of 
today. Proudly I admired the gold inlaid 
work of the breech and the beautiful en- 
graving of the locks, then carefully placed 
it in the case again. Next I brought out 
my little keg of F F G Hazard Powder, 
my canvas bag of Number four shot, the 
box of Ely’s double waterproof caps, then, 
with the wad cutter, I carefully punched a 
number of leather wads, placed the clean- 
ing rod and nipple wrench, with a couple 
of extra nipples, in the gun case and all 
was ready. 
Uncle William dearly loved a good 
horse, a trotter preferred, and always 
had one or two of that class in his stable, 
so next morning with a proud stepping 
bay hitched to the stout buggy we were 
off. The journey of forty miles was un- 
eventful, and near sunset we arrived at 
our destination, to be warmly welcomed 
by Michael and the whole Ortley family. 
Widgeon with a good day’s bag 
I T was early in November of the year 
1870. There had been several heavy 
storms in October which had strewn 
the beach with flotsam of the sea ; a 
schooner loaded with cord wood had come 
on shore nearly opposite the house (we 
had passed her dismasted hulk high and 
dry on the beach on our way down) and 
her deck load had been scattered along 
the beach for miles. This had made a 
good season’s “wracking” for Mike, and 
he had a rank of some fifty cords of fine 
pine wood, and a number of large square 
sticks of splendid yellow pine timber that 
would be worth a fabulous price today. 
He had a number of other things, among 
which were barrels of rosin and a case 
of fine china table ware, but little broken. 
Bill Miller, who had been helping Mike on 
“sheers,” had a fine rank of cord wood 
also. Few people know that agriculture 
has been successfully practised on Squan 
beach, but such is the case, and Jacob 
Ortley was the farmer who did it. By 
patient labor he had grubbed and cleared 
some four acres of bayberry scrub north 
of the house, and had placed it under cul- 
tivation. In dry seasons he grew good 
crops; in wet ones he failed, but the past 
summer had been a dry one and his crops 
were phenomenal. He had grown a bum- 
per crop of that queen of all white pota- 
toes, the “Peachblow,” and his sweet pota- 
to crop was equally good. He also had 
a fine yield of corn, beets, onions and cab- 
bage, so taking it all together things were 
unusually prosperous at Ortley. 
As we sat in a half circle in front of 
the fire that night, Uncle William had the 
post of honor at the “Ingle Nook,” then 
came Bill Miller and Mike, both smoking 
“shorts,” then the writer of this sketch, 
with Ed and Charlie Miller, while Jacob 
sat by the dim lamp at the table, study- 
ing his book as usual. Bill Miller told 
us there were lots of ducks and geese in 
the bay, and he thought we would have 
“good shootin’ if the weather came right.” 
Presently Uncle said: “Come Neil, lets go 
to bed.” So up the steep, winding stair 
we climbed to the big square room above, 
where I have slept so many nights on 
like occasions. 
A FTER a very early breakfast next 
morning, we were away to West 
Point, but the shooting was poor, 
the wind very light from the west, with 
all the signs of a storm brewing, and 
when we awoke on the following morning 
we found it storming from the southeast. 
It was raining too hard for Uncle Wil- 
liam to go out, and I fumed and fretted 
all the forenoon watching the moving 
fowl from the windows, but after dinner 
I could stand it no longer, so putting on 
my oilers and taking the little Manton 
(which Uncle said I would ruin in the 
rain), I started for West Point on foot, 
where we had left the boats the night be- 
fore. As I neared the point I saw there 
were vast quantities of ducks feeding in 
Nigger House Cove, away into where 
Lavellete now stands (there were no 
houses there then) , some of them quite 
ne'ar the meadow bank, and presently 
over the fringe of marsh elders on the 
point, I could see a large flock, within 
easy range from the shore. Getting down 
on my hands and knees, I crawled slowly 
over the wet meadow in the rain, care- 
fully keeping the muzzle of my gun out 
of the water. When I finally gained the 
fringe of elders, and cautiously peeped 
through, I saw it was a very large num- 
ber of birds, nearly all “smees” and wid- 
geons, strung out in a long thin line along 
the shore, industriously feeding on the 
succulent duck grass. I lay a long time 
in the beating storm trying to get a big 
shot, but they were scattered so thinly 
it was impossible, so finally I picked out 
the thickest place I could find, and, aim- 
ing carefully, let them have it. Up 
sprang the ducks with a great roar of 
wings, each one for himself, and singling 
out a beautiful drake smee, I brought him 
down with my second barrel; then out I 
went into the water to gather the fallen 
ducks. The channel comes quite close to 
the shore at the point, and two cripples 
made for it, with me in swift pursuit. 
One I overtook, but the other just escaped 
me I waded in until the water nearly 
ran in the tops of my boots, and struck 
at it with my gun barrels, but it evaded 
me by just a few short inches. Then I 
gathered up the dead and found I had 
nine. I then went to my boat and putting 
out a few decoys, sat down. Soon a fine 
