106 
FOREST AND STREAM 
March, 1921 
THE SLOUGHS OF SOUTHERN KANSAS 
A TALE OF OLD DAYS WHEN THE PRAIRIES OF THE WEST HARBORED 
MYRIADS OF WILD-FOWL AND SPORTSMEN WERE FEW IN NUMBER 
I N the year 1881, extending in a south- 
westerly direction from the thriving 
town of McPherson, Kansas, to the 
Aikansas River, was a chain, or suc- 
cession of lakes and marshes; many of 
these lakes were apparently connected 
by subterranean streams, the marshes 
by narrow open passages or creeks. 
This great expanse of country, during 
the autumn migration, was the high- 
way and feeding ground for myriads 
of ducks and geese on their annual 
pilgrimage from the Arctic regions to 
the sunny south land, and lucky in- 
deed was the wild-fowl shooter who 
chanced upon such a spot. 
We passed the outskirts of the town 
just as the rim of the rising sun ap- 
peared above the prairie horizon. 
Under its slanting rays the frost-cov- 
ered grass by the roadside sparkled as 
if strewn with diamond dust. The si- 
lence of the early morning was broken 
by the rapid staccato hoof beats of the 
nimble footed mustangs, and the low 
rumble of the swiftly moving “Jagger” 
wagon, while the clarion call of a flock 
of geese, passing over head on their 
way to their feeding grounds, sounded 
like sweet, music to our ears. 
In the wagon, well muffled up to keep 
out the frosty morning air, were Andy, 
Uncle Billy, George and I, with the 
livery driv- 
e r Aleck. 
We were on 
our way to 
the sloughs, 
fifteen miles 
away, and 
filled with 
By WIDGEON 
anticipation of a style of duck shooting 
that, as yet, we had never experienced. 
Oh ! glorious, days of early manhood ! 
Those days of visions and air-castle 
building, when the rich red blood of 
youth runs riot through one’s veins. 
How little we appreciate them in the 
passing. It is only when the shades 
of the night of life are falling, that we 
realize their full value, and are filled 
with vain regret that we cannot live 
them over again. As I look back over 
my past life, these lines seem most ap- 
propriate : 
Oh! that I were where I would be, 
Then would I be where I am not. 
Here am I where I must be, 
And where I would be, I cannot. 
A S we passed rapidly on our way 
the sun arose in all its glory and 
developed a beautiful November 
day. With the rising of the sun came 
the usual Kansas zephyr, and soon the 
great tumble weeds came rolling across 
the prairie, and the wind whistled 
through the dry sun-flower stalks by 
the roadside. 
When we were about four miles from 
town, Aleck pointed across the prairie 
to a large wheat field in the distance 
and said: “Look at the geese”; and 
there, feeding on the tender grain, was 
an enormous flock. Certainly more 
than a thousand of them, from the lord- 
ly Canada down through the many va- 
rieties to the little Hutchins goose. At 
that distance they looked like sheep, 
and in a drive of only a few miles one 
would see many such flocks on the 
grain fields, to which they did great 
damage. 
As all the public roads in Kansas lie 
at right angles, we drove south for 
about ten miles, until we reached about 
the limit of sod breaking, and then 
headed diagonally across the virgin 
prairie directly toward our destination; 
the only obstacles in our way being the 
back furrows of the section lines. Here 
were untold acres of buifalo grass on 
which great herds of buaffalo used to 
thrive. Their paths were still plainly 
to be seen, worn deeply in the soil, and 
their mysterious wallows were fre- 
quently in evidence, now solidly grown 
with the emblem flower of the State. 
On the road out, we passed first by 
the farms of the earlier settlers, with 
modern houses, with windbreaks, barns, 
windmills, etc.; then, farther on, were 
the later settlers’ cabins, without barns, 
and now we were at the limit of hus- 
bandry, with the soddy and shack as 
the homes of the hardy beginners. 
Here everything was in the raw and in 
the making and very primitive indeed. 
As we were following a faint 
wagon track, Aleck suddenly brought 
his horses to a halt. Pointing his whip 
he said: “See them chickens dusting in 
the road ahead.” And there, some fifty 
yards or more from us, was a covey 
of prairie chickens dusting themselves, 
just as domestic fowls are wont to do. 
Andy and I reached for our gun 
cases, and quickly put our guns to- 
gether, then, dismounting from the 
wagon, we walked slowly towards the 
birds. At about twenty-five yards dis- 
tance they took wing. I was fortunate 
enough to make a double, while Andy 
missed his second bird. As he snapped 
his gun shut, after putting in fresh 
cartridges, a single one arose, a loiter- 
er, which was quickly cut down by him, 
making a pair for each of us. 
These were our first chickens and 
after our long experience with ruffed 
grouse and quail in the east, we found 
them very easy shooting comparatively. 
The last shell — and the sky full of ducks. What hunter has not known the bitterness of such a situation? 
