o 
FOREST AND STREAM 
July 5. 1913 
that we ought to smoke. I was a little doubtful 
as to the wisdom of this suggestion, but I was 
game. We filled and lighted our pipes and 
calmly waited for the flight. Did I say “calmly”? 
I’ll take that back. We weren’t exactly calm, 
but we tried to be. We waited some ten or 
fifteen minutes with more or less patience and 
I was beginning to wish that I had taken a few 
of these cookies along in my pocket. “Lucky 
Strike” on an empty stomach gives one an awful 
bitter taste in one’s mouth, when Frank said: 
“They’re coming!” We laid down our pipes— 
I was glad enough for the excuse—and grasped 
our guns firmly. My legs were trembling so 
violently that I was afraid Frank would notice 
it; but no doubt he had troubles of his own. 
The sheldrakes, three of them, kept off. and 
kept on keeping off, until they went by a good 
hundred yards to the left. I wanted to try 
them, but Frank wouldn’t listen to it. He said 
they would come lots nearer by and by. He 
said they probably didn’t see the tolers. I didn’t 
wonder much at this. “Why,” said Frank, “a 
sheldrake will come to a lobster-trap buoy.” 
I proudly regarded our decoys. They looked 
pretty good to me, even if one of them did 
have a bad list to starboard and one was be¬ 
headed. Frank said that when the birds saw 
the headless one they would think he was feeding. 
Once more we settled down to wait. The 
sun was just breaking away up over the wood- 
crested hills of Orr’s Island, and as the calm 
waters of the bay caught its first golden rays, 
we sighted our first big flock. Probably there 
isn't a bird that flies straighter or steadier than 
a sheldrake. When first sighted against a clear 
background of blue sky they always remind me 
of bees. On they came straight for the ledge. 
I don’t believe they saw the decoys at all. With 
bated breath we hugged the rocks closer until 
they were directly overhead at a distance of 
probably forty yards, then we cut loose. Three 
of the birds crumpled and fell almost on our 
heads, while a fourth settled slowly from the 
flock, then doubled up and struck the water. 
Frank promptly pulled the trigger of the de¬ 
funct barrel at the remainder of the flock, while 
I got a fresh shell in my gun and tried to get 
in another shot. I fired, but the birds were too 
far. We launched our boat and picked up the 
bird that was floating quite dead on the water. 
I’ll never forget that feeling of pride as we 
sat there on the rocks and handled the dead 
birds, three “hen” sheldrakes and a “cock.” 
They were ours, we had actually shot wild 
ducks. We sighted several more birds, but none 
of them came within shooting distance. Finally 
Frank suggested that we take up the “tolers” 
as the flight seemed to be over. I remember 
as we were getting ready to pull for home, a 
lobster fisherman came along and asked us, 
“What luck?” and how we tried to hide our en¬ 
thusiasm when we told him, “Rotten! the birds 
weren’t flying good this morning.” 
A Bad Fad. 
“My husband sees pink elephants when he 
drinks.” 
“Mine has a worse fad than that. He sees 
green dogs. Tt’s expensive, too.” 
“How’s that?” 
“Why, he goes and buys licenses for ’em.” 
—Evening Mail. 
How Wounded Ducks are Lost. 
BY EDWARD A. SAMUELS. 
I began my duck shooting more than^ 
sixty years ago, and since that time I have 
had opportunities to study the nature and habits 
of most of our different species of waterfowl, 
and my observation and experience have led me 
to conclude that the so-called fresh water or 
river ducks, Anatince, never dive and cling to 
the bottom when wounded, while the sea ducks, 
Fuligulince, almost invariably have that habit. 
I have repeatedly discovered these wounded 
sea fowl clinging to marine plants on the bottom 
and put the facts on record in one of my books, 
“Birds of New England,” printed many years 
ago. These fowl, so far as my observation goes, 
do not attempt to conceal themselves by crawl¬ 
ing out upon the shore, but invariably dive and 
hold to the bottom with their beaks, in which 
position they remain long after the period of 
rigor mortis have passed. 
With the fresh water ducks, such as the 
mallard, black or dusky duck and others of that 
class, it is a different story. I never knew one 
of these birds when wounded to dive to the 
bottom and cling, but they do almost always 
submerge their bodies and swim beneath the sur¬ 
face to the shore, the top of the upper mandible 
being out of the water sufficiently to permit air 
to enter the nostrils. Repeatedly have I seen 
the beak of the bird slowly moving through 
the water without causing a ripple, having the 
appearance of a partially submerged stick and a 
charge of shot fired at the object invariably dis¬ 
closed and put hors d'e combat the crafty fugi¬ 
tive. 
In case these wounded birds thus escape 
the gunner, they always swim to the shore, crawl 
out among the reeds and other herbage, and 
make their way to the meadows or swale land 
where they conceal themselves among the weeds 
and lush grass where birds of this class are 
nearly as much at home as in the water. 
I have discovered wounded ducks thus hid¬ 
den away ten or fifteen rods from the water 
into which they fell, they having traversed that 
distance with astonishing rapidity, and often 
when snipe shooting on the meadows have I 
jumped up these wing-tipped ducks which, though 
unable to fly away, could skim along fairly 
well over the surface of the marsh, often giving 
my setter a bad case of nerve prostration, or 
rather agitation before I could stop the bird with 
my gun. 
The Devastating Dog. 
Jenkintown, Pa., June 16.— Editor Forest 
and Stream: I think the gentleman in New 
York that signs his name “Old Man” in regard 
to the devastating dog is quite right. This 
brings to my mind a case in Columbia county, 
Pennsylvania, in the summer of 1912 of one of 
those devastating dogs that roam the fields and 
got into a covey of very young quail, when the 
old bird flew to an apple tree, there to sit and 
see this cur run through the grass and catch 
one after another and swallow them up like 
a toad would a fly. I think it would stagger 
many of the sportsmen if we knew the amount 
of young birds and rabbits that disappear by 
this route, yet the owner of that mongrel thought 
it very smart in him. D. Rockefeller. 
A Belated Correction. 
New York City, June 19.— Editor Forest 
and Stream: It is mortifying to have made a 
blunder, still more so to be obliged to acknowl¬ 
edge it, but most mortifying of all when the 
blunder includes an injustice unwittingly done 
to another person. I have made such an error, 
and since I have discovered it to-day I do what 
I can to correct it, and I offer my apologies to 
the person injured. 
In 1905 or 1906 Forest and Stream pub¬ 
lished, over the pseudonym W. B. Anderson, a 
serial story entitled “In the Lodges of the Black- 
feet. This story was from the pen of J. W. 
Schultz, well known to all readers of Forest 
and Stream. In 1907 these chapters were 
brought together and published by Doubleday, 
Page & Co., under the title, ‘ My Life as an 
Indian,” by J. W. Schultz. I edited the book, 
but did not choose the title. 
The volume was illustrated by a large num¬ 
ber of photographs, and the title page bore the 
legend, “Illustrated by Photographs Mostly by 
George Bird Grinnell.” How this legend has 
escaped my attention up to the present time I 
cannot explain. As a matter of fact the photo¬ 
graphs used in illustrating the volume were 
taken mostly by E. W. Deming, of New York, 
the well-known artist and Indian painter. Two 
or three of the photographs in the book were 
taken by me, and of one or two others used the 
origin has now been forgotten. 
It is a matter of the keenest regret to me 
that wholly undeserved credit should have been 
given for these pictures on the title page of 
Mr. Schultz’s book, and that he to whom the 
credit was due should so long have been de¬ 
prived of it. Mr. Deming, I feel sure, will ac¬ 
cept my apologies and regrets, but even this 
cannot take away my mortification at the in¬ 
justice unintentionally done him. 
It is proper that these regrets should be 
expressed in the columns of Forest and Stream 
where they will reach the greatest number of 
readers familiar with the book. 
George Bird Grinnell. 
Otter in Nevada. 
No record of the otter has apparently ever 
been made from Nevada, though the Canada 
otter occurs in Idaho, and a paler form, de¬ 
scribed by Rhoads as L. canandensis sonora, 
from Arizona. 
Recently, however, the Walker-Newcomb 
expedition of the University of Michigan found 
an otter common on the Hombolt River in the 
northeastern part of the State, and a specimen 
was secured from a trapper, which is now in 
the University’s Museum of Zoology. 
This animal, a large adult male, appears to 
be the ordinary Canada otter. A notice of its 
occurrence was published in a recent number of 
Science, by Alexander G. Ruthven and Fred¬ 
erick M. Gaige. 
St. Paul. 
St. Paul is situated 695 feet above sea level 
at the river dock, 875 feet above sea level at 
the State Capital, and 1,016 feet above sea level 
at the highest point and has sixteen miles of 
river front. 
