364 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Sept. 20, 1913. 
tried before. It was the color of a sun-dried 
log, and hardly distinguishable from the sand. 
Nailed to movable stakes, it could be shifted 
as change of wind raised or lowered the water. 
It afforded perfect cover, and the ducks paid no 
attention to it. Of course in extremely high 
water it could not be used, but almost always 
there was some ridge dry enough for a shooter 
to sit on a cracker box and stoop behind the 
old sail when he saw ducks coming. 
“We won’t do a thing to the San Jacinto 
ducks next winter,” was the verdict of the four, 
when leaving Houston on their way to homes 
and families, to business cares and business 
worries. 
But when next winter came there were three 
new faces in the party. All summer the writer 
had been working on a new idea, something sug¬ 
gested, unless he is mistaken, by a writer in 
b orest and Stream. A looking glass blind. 
Why not? What is reflected in a glass? Sur¬ 
rounding objects of course. And in a looking 
glass blind, what would the waterfowl see? 
Water, decoys, themselves. Anything to be 
afraid of there? Well, hardly. So a box was 
made, three feet by three feet and two and a 
half feet deep. Half-inch dressed lumber was 
used with corner posts of two by four scant¬ 
ling. All joints were filled with white lead. It 
was given two heavy coats of paint, inside and 
out. When thoroughly dry, a coating of white 
lead was applied outside to within a few inches 
of the top, then before the lead had chance to 
dry, canvas was tacked over sides and bottom. 
Over the canvas, zinc was tacked, and then every 
joint soldered with great care so as to make 
the box not only watertight, but proof against 
quicksand, and quicksand will force its way 
where water cannot. The looking glass used 
was heavy and of the best. There were four 
sections, each three feet long and two wide, 
waterproofed on the back and set in tin frames, 
with screw holes so as to be fastened to the 
corners of the box. When in position, they set 
at a slight angle, down, so as to reflect the 
water, and came flush with the top of the box; 
the bottom six inches of which was supposed to 
lie submerged, or if the shooting was on sand¬ 
bars, banked with sand. Theoretically, the idea 
seemed perfect, but theory is sometimes as un¬ 
certain as a woman’s whims. 
Boats, decoys, blind, ammunition, provisions, 
all were sent a month ahead, nearly half a car 
load of them, the balance of the car being filled 
with cabbages, the profit on which about paid 
freight on the whole outfit. 
The small schooner Amelia was ready when 
the four reached Galveston, the impedimenta 
neatly stowed, some in the hold, some on deck. 
An ice house forward held two tons of ice, and 
in less than an hour after the train pulled in, 
sails were set, and the happy four were bowling 
up the bay. 
Sorry, cap,” said Charlie, our deck hand, 
assistant with decoys and general factotum, at 
the supper table. “Sorry, but high water and 
a failure of feed has raised the dickens with 
the shooting around Morgan’s Point and the 
mouth of San Jacinto River. No ducks there. 
Reckon, though, there’s plenty over Trinity 
way.” 
This was a disappointment, for we did want 
to work that “in” flight, and it seemed as if be¬ 
tween looking glass and canvas we had it 
cinched to death. So to Trinity we went, and 
on a Trinity sandbar the glass blind was tried. 
On the bar as far as eye could reach were 
thousands of swan, geese, pelican and curlew, 
with a few ducks, sprig and mallard scattered 
among them. The day was favorable, dark and 
cloudy, with a light breeze from the south. The 
others, each in a small skiff, scattered over the 
country to try and locate a flight, but the writer 
and Charlie loaded the blind into the schooner’s 
yawl and started for the stretch of sand so 
popular with game we didn’t want and had but 
little use for. A large body of birds was split 
in two. They were not over shy and flew but 
a short distance. The yawl drew much water, 
with her round bottom and sharp keel, and it 
was a sweltering tote, carrying that box and 
its heavy trimmings into position between the 
halves of that big pack of birds, but at last it 
was set, the glass screwed on, and Charlie sit¬ 
ting in the yawl watching the performance. 
"Looks good. They’d ought ter work to 
it,” he shouted. 
There were no decoys. The trip wasn’t 
made for goose shooting, and it was half an 
hour before an old gray gander came lumber¬ 
ing toward the blind. He paid no attention to 
it. Was easily killed and put out for a decoy. 
The shot, however, aroused the sleepy birds 
and the air became full of circling, honking 
geese and trumpeting swan, and in quick order 
twenty more geese and brant were bagged, the 
last four, big Canada geese, being killed with 
No. 9 shot. Then Charlie was called, the blind 
dismantled, and taken back to the schooner, 
apparently a complete success, the geese dressed 
and iced, and for the next week it was roast 
goose, stewed goose, broiled breast of goose, 
warmed over goose, until by mutual consent 
goose shooting and goose eating were tabooed 
for the rest of the trip, and a heavy penalty 
fixed for anyone who should break the rule and 
bring a goose aboard, namely—he was to eat the 
entire goose, feathers excepted, himself. Need¬ 
less to say, no more were killed. 
Trinity Bay did not pan out well on the 
duck question. Not many were there. Those 
that were found were mostly greenwing teal 
and widgeon, with now and then a sprig or 
mallard. It was canvas we were after and a 
flight of them was located coming from the 
southeast, too high to tap. So early the second 
morning the captain, in a small hunting skiff, 
followed it up until he reached its source, a 
chain of celery-filled lakes over toward Sabine. 
The schooner was moved, and the first lake, a 
round body of water a little over a mile in 
diameter, was a sight to behold, when seen from 
the mast head. It seemed iced over, and the 
ice snow covered, and shifting in the sunlight 
just as we have all seen Northern lakes appear 
after the first November freeze. It wasn’t ice; 
of course it wasn’t snow. Just canvasback, and 
so full was the lake that it seemed another duck 
couldn’t find foot room unless he rode “horsey 
back ’ on some of his more fortunate brothers. 
“What a place for the glass blind!” was 
the comment, and it did look pretty favorable. 
1 here was a narrow strip of land separat¬ 
ing bay from lake, and across it that night the 
blind was carried and set in a favorable position 
early next morning, with a big bunch of decoys 
down wind. It wasn’t the same blind, this 
bright sunny day with the still water sparkling 
around it, as on the sandbar with the day dark 
and cloudy. There was to be seen only a shin¬ 
ing spot of glare and glitter, yet that was enough 
to attract the attention of a bird as shyly curious 
as a canvasback. 
Charley had no more than put out the last 
decoy and moved to a cane point quarter of a 
mile away, ready in his skiff to chase cripples 
or gather in the dead, before a pretty bunch of 
a hundred or more came on like animated can¬ 
non balls, covered with hoar frost. They checked 
their speed a hundred yards out and circled and 
circled, going a little higher each time, until 
over the blind, then made a wide turn and set¬ 
tled in the water 200 yards outside the decoys. 
In vain they were called. They would answer 
with sarcastic, deep-toned qu-a-c-ks, seeming to 
say, “All right, boss. Thanks for your invita¬ 
tion, but your reception might be too warm, and 
we prefer to stay away,” and they did. 
This kind of business kept up for an hour. 
Of the hundreds that started for the decoys, 
not one came in. All shied away from the un¬ 
known point of brightness and gathered with 
their own kind safely out of range. 
Finally the warm sun brought on an attack 
of drowsiness, and before he knew it the writer 
was fast asleep. He must have slept for half 
an hour or more, when the rustle of wings 
close by aroused him. He peered carefully over the 
edge of the box and saw a thousand, perhaps five 
thousand canvasbacks, their curiosity excited by 
the unknown glittering object, and their fears al¬ 
layed by absence of noise or movement, swim¬ 
ming, heads up, necks stretched, straight into 
the decoys, one or two scouts, gray old veterans, 
leading. The outer decoys were perhaps sixty 
yards away from the blind; the thick bunch of 
ducks ten yards back of the scouts. It looked 
like they were coming to prink and preen be¬ 
fore the first looking glass they had ever seen, 
all of them, males as well as females. The writer 
made up his mind not to shoot until he saw 
just what they did; he soon saw. The leading 
drake swam to a white-backed decoy and hit 
it a poke that sounded like the blow of a small 
hammer, then with astonishment in his every 
action half turned and edged away. He must 
have told the others something was wrong, for 
the whole crowd followed. What was to be 
done? Can you imagine anyone who would not 
have tried a pot shot with the old scout the 
center of his aim? 
Anyhow, that is what happened. Holding 
high on the veteran, a bunch of twenty or more 
were directly in line, and when Charlie had 
finished with the cripples, thirteen canvasbacks 
was the result of that long range double shot. 
How many could have been killed were they 
thirty yards closer? Would a pot shot under 
such circumstances have been justifiable? Each 
reader can answer for himself, but put the best 
sportsman in the country in that box with sev¬ 
eral thousand canvasbacks within easy range, 
and do you think he could “hold his bosses,” 
flush the birds, and be satisfied to try for one 
with each barrel? You may; I don’t. 
This experience seemed to show that the 
looking glass blind, except under very favorable 
circumstances, would not do. Some other time 
I will write how it was utilized, and of its final 
fate. 
Next morning on going to the blind a notice 
written by some of the local hunters in blood 
