fiHcked feujrtain of blue-black 6onceal- 
ment. Therefore, we really saw very 
little. One mallard winged his way to 
an engagement in our immediate vicinity, 
which his lady — even husters must be 
chivalrous — failed to keep for reasons 
which are perhaps obvious. Had decoys 
been set, he would have honofcd them 
with his presence for he skittered into 
the water within a score of yards, and, 
more promptly, skittered out again. His 
keen eyes caught some suggestion of 
danger though we did not move. After 
that, we poled thoughtfully homeward, 
leaving the night chill for their undivided 
jollification. 
Unless additional evidence of wildfowl 
wisdom is valuable, that day was profit- 
less. However, when we are informed 
that ducks have not inherited the grey- 
matter needful to encompass thought or 
transmit intelligence, that evening pops 
into the midst of our credulity. Combat- 
ting the onrush of civilization, wild ducks 
appear to display cumulative erudition 
which is not gained in single seasons. 
There must be seminaries of higher edu- 
cation somewhere in the unknown north. 
South Bay ducks usually eschew shore- 
ward flats and shallows, tippling there 
upon luscious morsels during night’s uni- 
versal seclusion. Only when adverse 
winds or cold addle their instincts does 
the hunter reap his harvest. 
That was our season’s bitterest day, 
when enthusiasm ebbed low; — yet that 
dawn was near when the flocks were 
tom asunder and hours were struck with 
crashing gunshots. No gunner may feed 
the flame of his passion wholly with vi- 
brant memories, or live only in misty 
dreams drawn on imagination’s mirror. 
Our interest wanes even from old bay- 
men’s reminisc«mces of past annihilation 
unless we, too, live this our day of days. 
L ate in November, we journeyed out 
for another day with those ducks 
which had been so unpenitent and 
persistent in lack of conviviality. The 
whole season long, our luck had deserted 
us, and the score, kept in secret honesty, 
was woefully short. Big flights were in 
the bay. We could overhear their vibrant 
conversational gossipings from meadow 
ponds while we packed decoys upon the 
skiff. But we had ceased to build hopes 
on that infirm foundation. The rafting 
flocks would break up only before buffet^ 
ing ocean gales, and the day had been 
almost cloudless, stirred by light south- 
erly breezes. 
Pardner waxed optimistic, encouraged 
by the falling barometer and a blood-red 
sunset, but, in many cases, weather has 
small conscience in setting warnings. On 
this occasion, our doubts were unjust. Be- 
fore rattling supper dishes were cleared 
away, darkness thickened outside and 
stars faded under a deepening murk. 
Rustlings of wind in the shingles and 
the bump of a boat against dock shoring 
brought welcome tidings of weather out 
of the east. Our alarm was set to steal 
another hour from that restless sleep 
which always comes vivid with dreams of 
miraculous shooting when real duck 
weather blows. 
^ Breakfast consumed apparent aeons oifi 
time before we tumbled guns, shells and 
hot-bottles into the skiff to start that 
mad race for favored points which duck 
days in these parts presage. During the 
night, the wind had freshened and sting- 
ing gusts told of sturdier strength behind 
the rising sun. Our motor boat slapped 
its progress through little waves rough- 
ening even the usually placid creek. 
Navigation under an un-moon-lan- 
terned sky, streaked with cloud wrack, 
was a precarious bit of tiller handling, 
even though east winds drive in high 
tides and mud flats lie deeper than is 
their custom. Fortunately, flood tide 
was making before the wind, therefore 
the channelway surges were smooth. 
Otherwise we might have spent that day 
at the shack in an atmosphere of steam- 
ing garments and maledictions instead 
of at Broadbill Point. 
When the creek opened out, the gale’s 
powerful sweep across those broader 
open estuaries among the islands warned 
us to steer close to that scanty lee which 
was afforded by windward mud-bars. 
Bounded by limited vision, we seemed to 
be axial amidst maelstroms of water 
rushing past in twisting hillocks, and our 
boat bounced from crest to crest, thrust- 
ing its broad bow into each, sending tor- 
rents of wind-flung spray on either side. 
By piecing faintly familiar landmarks 
together, we held our course until we 
were shut off in the haven of our point 
which juts, roughly crescent shaped, 
into the hay. Tall sedge clumps gave 
shelter from the blow and, after the tu- 
mult of crashing water, banging decoys 
and engine throbs, the overhead rush of 
wind alone seemed comparitive silence. 
I remember the taste of caked brine on 
my lips and the rattle of whipping sedge 
on oilskins while we smoked cigarettes 
in grateful momentary rest. Then wq 
poled out to set decoys. 
D ay broke very slowly as dark waters 
and shores greyed out of the night. 
Suddenly rushing wings sounded 
and some ducks flashed by like phan- 
toms, with only the turn of one head to 
mark their reality as they flitted over the 
stool. Instinctively we crouched behind 
the thatch while I held my watch to 
(CONTINUED ON PAGE 618 ) 
