July 28, 1906.] 
FOREST AND STREAM 
i 37 
Duck Hunting Minus the Gun. 
“See the lake, no rice,” said Hawk in his 
deep, guttural tones. I followed the index finger 
of the Mississauga guide. There lay the calm 
waters of Rice Lake, showing on its surface no 
sign of the great wild crop lying dormant be¬ 
low. When last we had seen this huge bay of 
the lake, it was one waving mass of green and 
golden wild rice; over it the ducks winged their 
way in great flocks, and the air was eloquent 
of the sport of the hunters, and regular fusilades 
greeted the incoming birds. In this fine sport 
we had our share; then one November day we 
woke up to find ourselves “frozen in.” The 
lake had “taken” in the night and was coated 
with a glimmering sheet of “rubber ice”—so 
called from its bending qualitites ere it breaks. 
I remember two of us leaving the camp and, gun 
in hand, skating all over this treacherous sur¬ 
face. It was intersected with air holes, in which 
swam many a wounded bird that had eluded us. 
It was odd to see them dive and come up under 
the ice directly beneath our feet; then back to 
the air-hole they would go and come up right 
into a charge of number six; it was merciful 
to kill them, as having first knocked many of 
them down, we felt regret to think of the pain¬ 
ful struggle ahead, of the long hours of the nip¬ 
ping nights when they would have to swim 
rapidly—alas! in ever-narrowing circles—to keep 
the tiny hole open. Next morning the story 
of their hard work would be told by the strug¬ 
gle-tossed body of the bird in the churned-up 
center of the sealed air-hole. It is well to be 
seated on a dry firm bench in the little shanty 
writing of this—when I recall how we shot 
these birds in the air-holes, waited for the light 
wind to drift them to one side—then lying on 
our breast, we wriggled as near the hole as 
possible and raked the dead birds out with the 
muzzle of our guns, with a slowly sinking inch 
of ice beneath. No more for mine, thank you. 
While the Indian built the lunch fire, I 
watched the migratory flocks of ducks amid- 
lake. Then as we were on one of the best 
duck shooting points' in Rice Lake, I decided 
to eat our snack in an old “bough-house” on 
the point. Here I rapidly improvised a window 
among the stones—for “bough-houses” are not 
built of boughs, but of boulders and rocks; in¬ 
serted the camera, and bulb on one side and 
note-book on the other, and with lunch spread 
in front, I was all ready for food and pictures. 
Now, did you ever sit this way, an object lesson 
in divided attention? Far out in the lake im¬ 
mense hosts of ducks swam and flew, dived and 
WILD RICE BAY IN SPRING. 
fed, or sat calling in their various rich spring 
notes. At last a pair of widgeon whirred past 
with that silky rustle of theirs, heard Hawk’s 
low “gabble,” turned and fell into the water 
twenty-feet from us. The bulb was in my hand, 
the lunch spread on my knees on a bit of slab; 
up flew the slab, away slid the lunch, of course 
butter side down into the sand, and I actually 
raised the bulb in the air as I would my gun, 
so strong in the force of habit, pressed it, and 
here is the picture of that now distant pair. 
I asked Hawk how the rice came here, his 
answering legend may interest you. “Na-na- 
boo-zoo gave it to his people. You never heard 
of Na-na-boo-zoo; you call him Hiawatha. 
Same to us as your Christ”—he uttered the 
sacred name with all the low, strong, natural 
reverence of the Indian—“born long time ago, 
before the Tower [I learned later he alluded to 
the Tower of Babel], let me tell you story. 
When the great flood was here, no man was left 
; 
but Na-na-boo-zoo. In his canoe he took three 
animals to see if the water was going back. 
First he put the beaver over; it came up dead. 
Then he put the otter over; it came up dead. 
Then he took the wahzlnisk (muskrat) and sent 
it down to see if the waters were going back: 
it came up dead, too. But Na-na-boo-zoo 
opened its little paw and in it was some earth, 
so he saw that the waters were going back.” 
The intense earnestness with which the guide 
told it impressed me. I kept silent, hoping for 
more; and his low, deep tones took up the 
legend again. , 
“One time an Indian woman went to the 
forest and built a wigwam all alone. She was a 
good woman, and young. She slept there alone. 
Then the Great Spirit sent a white feather; she 
saw it falling and floating in the air; she lay and 
watched it; it fell and just touched her on the 
breast, so Na-na-boo-zoo was born.” 
The swishing of many wings brought us back 
from these grand old themes. A dusky hand 
grasped my arm. Instinctively I followed his 
glance. Swimming along the shore, within five' 
feet of it, was a splendid pair of bluebills, the 
male a glory in green and bronze and canvas 
white; she a modest duck in brown and gray. 
They swam along, often nipping up a stray 
insect, or dipping down for gravel. At last 
they were right in front of the bough-house; 
and just as they both raisel their heads and 
swallowed a nice cold drink, I pressed the 
bulb; the machine clanged out its record; and 
the way those two web-footed ones got out of 
that was a caution. We watched them as they 
winged away off to the big flock, she leading 
and he closely following, a sure sign that they 
had only just mated, as usually she follows his 
every air line movement after she has finally 
chosen him for her mate. 
I saw a strange sight through the big glass. 
A duck hawk (Falco peregrinus crnatum —to be 
scientific) fell like an arrow from the' clouds 
straight down into that feeding, splashing, diving 
host of ducks. Like magic every duck disap¬ 
peared beneath the water, all save one poor 
sickly chap. (The red men say these birds are 
“consumptive” bluebills. I have found their 
interior department in a very bad way.) Over 
the water the duck spattered, unable to dive, 
unable to more than lift himself from the surface 
by aid of wings and tail and feet. The falling 
hawk described a sharp, clear circle, leaving the 
angle of its fall within a foot of the water, the 
noise sounding like the ripping of an immense 
sail, or a mighty rush of flame, and speeding 
“I offer you the picture as proof.” 
