DUCKS AND A DAY OF RECKONING 
SHOOTERS OF TODAY MUST KEEP THE SPRINGS OF OPTIMISM WELLING CLEAR IN SPITE 
OF FAILURES FOR ONLY THEN DOES FULFILLMENT BALANCE WITH ANTICIPATION 
By ARMOUR W. BARBOUR 
W HERE certain back-waters of the 
Great South Bay thrust sinuous 
fingers into the mainland, Is a 
creek, navigable when one knows its 
twisting channel’s vagaries. There, 
crouched in its concealment, stands our 
hunting shack. Grey and weather 
stained, strewn about with occasional 
shell monuments to departed feasts and 
hedged with stiff grass clumps, it treas- 
ures within that precious jumble, a riff- 
raff which bespeaks an abiding-place of 
the unrestrained male. An ordered dis- 
array of hibernating tackle, nets and oars 
stacked in far corners, rope ends coiling 
from beneath bunks; this is Elysium! 
Barter me a Mansion of the Avenue or 
Castles in Spain perhaps, and I will 
scornfully refuse you. For this is the 
house of priceless content. 
Hereabouts I can exchange heat swir- 
ling from city pavements for tide-waves 
swishing cool under a boat’s bow and a 
tingling taut line cutting water when 
weakfish strike; or I retreat under ma- 
chine fire from apartment steam systems 
to the still of fall mornings when frost 
crystals sparkle under stars. Standing 
sturdy under lashing wind-squalls, our 
haven hunches its back a trifle as we are 
sheltered under its eaves. This is our 
shrine reared to the Red Gods where we 
breathe incense from the great outdoors. 
Seasons roll past, one upon the other’s 
heels, unfolding their vivid panorama of 
sport and the bittersweet of failure is 
always inundated by the flooding joys of 
success. Shooters and fishermen of to- 
day must keep the springs of optimism 
welling clear in spite of many rolling 
disappointments, for only then does ful- 
filment balance with anticipation. Their 
gems of happiness are composed of many 
small fragments set in that golden mat- 
rix of imagination which holds so much 
that memory loves to dwell upon. 
W HEN autumn 
margins bay 
and marsh 
with frost-browned 
sedge, our shack 
bustles with new 
preparation. 
Sweeping south- 
ward from their 
northland lakes, 
duck hosts are 
coming fast. De- 
coys are plumaged 
with new paint and 
boats are thatched. 
Snipe whistle shril- 
ly from meadow 
ponds and early 
ducks thrill us as 
they sweep across 
the sky. Anticipa- 
tion flames anew 
^mid the burnish* 
Two handfuls of happiness 
ing of old memories and the furbishing 
of renewed hopes. 
Imagination is our steel bulwark 
against the buffets of adverse fortune. 
Without that armor, days lived in these 
marshes, even though leavened with 
some few shots, are too often almost as 
bitter as their waters. Soon we will lie 
close hidden while the black duck sweep 
over like smoke streaming from the 
meadows. Winter’s storms spin' the 
wheel of fortune while we watch the fall 
of days in our sport’s greatest gamble. 
Despite dragging weeks passing on 
laggard feet, an end comes even to close 
seasons. At last, our morning came 
when dawn brightened the east while we 
lay at a favorite point. As if that first 
melting of shadows were a summons, 
serried squadrons of black ducks win- 
nowed seaward without a single waver- 
ing individual among their thousands. 
With the sun came blustering winds 
which gave fair promise of churning 
their ocean playgrounds with uncomfort- 
able choppy seas. We burrowed as near 
as might be into the bottom planking of 
our boat, and lived that day through 
in vivid expectation of those ducks be- 
ing driven back. 
Stinging puffs bent the sedge over us 
like whiplashes and sought out weak 
crevices in our shell of garments. Once, 
two manifestly steel-feathered broadbill 
whipped out of nowhere across our de- 
coys to depart unscathed. Near mid- 
day, one teal proved less invulnerable 
when he rocketed in and his wary way 
was willed to the brothers of his kin. 
A few birds traced their flight far out, 
avoiding all shoreward flats. 
A t sunset, the wind departed on 
other business and golden tints 
were mirrored in the smooth water. 
Sadly we pushed out to gather our de- 
coys, wondering how late those winging 
thousands would return. After the last 
cork duck was taken in, by mutual con- 
sent, we pushed back to watch for a few 
moments longer under the rising moon. 
When light vanished out of western sky 
and night mists were risen to screen 
luminous moon-shafts, fearless of that 
false brilliance, flocks came back and the 
air was vibrant with velvet rustling 
wings. The marsh was safe for its fur- 
tive children. 
Sedgy coves and shallow reaches were 
suddenly peopled 
with feathered 
dwellers. Occasion- 
ally, from near or 
far, came softly 
modulated, throaty 
quackings which 
bespeak true duck 
content. Often, in 
the stillness, we 
heard water struck 
out of its placid 
quiet by flocks com- 
ing in, or slashed 
by the wing strokes 
of singles spring- 
ing into flight. 
Moonlight’s soft, 
broad brush sil- 
vered the bay but, 
outside of its 
bright path, the 
«ky was a piQ 
A few live decoys were tethered to attract their wilder kindred 
