248 
ONE DUCK. 
some ducks splash in among them. The 
sound of oar-locks in the distance next 
caught my ears. They were so far away 
that it took some time to decide whether or 
not they were approaching. But they finally 
grew more distinct, the steady, measured 
beat of an oar in a wooden lock, a very 
pleasing sound coming over still, moonlit 
waters. It was an hour before the boat 
emerged into view and passed my post. A 
white, misty obscurity began to gather over 
the waters, and in the morning this had 
grown to be a dense fog. By early dawn 
Eldridge was again in the box, and pres- 
ently his gun went bang ! bang ! then bang ! 
came again from the second gun he had 
taken with him, and we imagined the water 
strewn with ducks. But he reported only 
one. It floated to him and was picked up, 
so we need not go out. In the dimness and 
silence. Peck and I rowed up and down the 
shore in hopes of starting up a stray duck 
that might possibly decoy. We saw many 
objects that simulated ducks pretty well 
through the obscurity, but they failed to 
take wing on our approach. The most 
pleasing thing we saw was a large, rude 
boat propelled by four colored oarsmen. It 
looked as if it might have come out of some 
old picture. Two oarsmen were seated in 
tlie bows pulling, and two stood up in the 
stern, each working a long oar, bending 
and recovering and uttering a low, wild 
chant. The spectacle emerged from the 
fog on the one hand and plunged into it on 
the other. 
Later in the morning, Ave were attracted 
by another craft. We heard it coming 
down upon us long before it emerged into 
view. It made a sound as of some un- 
wieldy creature slowly pawing the water, 
and when it became visible through the fog 
the sight did not belie the ear. We beheld 
an awkward black hulk that looked as if it 
might have been made out of the bones of 
the first steamboat, or was it some Virginia 
colored man’s study of that craft ? Its 
wheels consisted each of two timbers cross- 
ing each other at right angles. As the 
shaft slowly turned, these timbers pawed and 
pawed the water. It hove to on the flats 
near our quarters, and a colored man came 
off in a boat. To our inquiry, he said with a 
grin that his craft was a “ fioating saw-mill.” 
After a while I took my turn in the box, 
and, with a life-preserver for a pillow. 
lay there on my back, pressed down be- 
tween the narrow sides, the muzzle of my 
gun resting upon my toe and its stock upon 
my stomach, waiting for the silly ducks to 
come. I was rather in hopes they would 
not come, for I felt pretty certain that I 
could not get up promptly in such narrow 
quarters and deliver my shot with any pre- 
cision. As nothing could be seen and as it 
was very still, it was a good time to listen 
again. I was virtually under water, and 
in a good medium for the transmission of 
sounds. The barking of dogs on the Mary- 
land shore was quite audible, and I heard 
with great distinctness a Maryland lass call 
some one to breakfast. They were astir up 
at Mount Vernon, too, though the fog hid 
them from view. I heard the mocking or 
Carolina wren along shore calling quite 
plainly the words a Georgetown poet has 
put in his mouth, “ Sweet-heart, sweet-heart, 
sweet!” Presently I heard the whistle of 
approaching wings, and a solitary duck 
alighted back of me over my right shoulder 
— just the most awkward position for me 
she could have assumed. I raised my head 
a little and skimmed the water with my eye. 
The duck was swimming about just beyond 
the decoys, apparently apprehensive that 
she was intruding upon the society of her 
betters. She would approach a little, and 
then, as the stiff, aristocratic decoys made 
no sign of welcome or recognition, she 
would sidle off again. “ Who are they, that 
they should hold themselves so loftily and 
never condescend to notice a forlorn duck ? ” 
I imagined her saying. Should I spring up 
and show my hand and demand her sur- 
render ? It was clearly my duty to do so. I 
wondered if the boys were looking from 
shore, for the fog had lifted a little. But I 
must act, or the duck would be off. I began 
to turn slowly in my sepulcher and to gather 
up my benumbed limbs ; I then made a rush 
and got up, and had a fairly good shot as 
the duck flew across my bows, but I failed 
to stop her. A man in the woods in the 
line of my shot cried out, angrily, “ Stop 
shooting this way 1 ” 
I laid down again and faced the sun, that 
had now burnt his way through the fog, 
till I was nearly blind, but no more ducks 
decoyed, and I called out to be relieved. 
With our one duck, but with many 
pleasant remembrances, we returned to 
Washington that afternoon. ^ 
