Sept. 27, 1913. 
FOREST AND STREAM 
395 
158 grains being the correct weight for that 
caliber. At 3,000 foot seconds this would create 
a muzzle energy about the same as our .405 Win¬ 
chester, but at a few yards from the muzzle 
would surpass the Winchester and constantly in¬ 
crease its lead. With a properly mushrooming 
bullet this energy is more than sufficient for 
our largest game at hunting ranges, while this 
diameter in a nickeled bullet is large enough 
for a military cartridge. 
A Canadian ride has very nearly approached 
these specifications, getting over 3,150 foot sec¬ 
onds out of a .28 caliber bullet weighing 146 
grains. Its accuracy is all that could be desired, 
but its price is higher than the average sports¬ 
man cares to pay. 
If an American factory can produce a com¬ 
bination that will fit the specifications given for 
a cost approximating thirty dollars, it should be 
a money-making proposition. By the way, we 
are apt to be misled in regard to the perform¬ 
ance of some foreign guns, unless the difference 
between the powders used is understood. We 
use nothing but nitro cellulose compounds. 
Some foreign makers use the cordite variety, 
giving for the same chamber pressure consider¬ 
ably greater speed, lint possessing one trait not 
appreciated here. Its chemical action on steel 
will permit of shooting moose in Maine one sea¬ 
son, and finding yourself the owner of a perfect 
smooth bore shotgun to shoot ducks the next. 
All with the same gun, and the inside of the 
barrel will be nickel plated to boot. 
When such a rifle, is one-twentieth of the 
total expense of an Africa trip lasting only a 
few weeks, but bringing to bag the valuable game 
to be found there, the hunter can discard his 
weapon at the end of the trip with no twinges of 
conscience. It has earned its retirement. The 
cost of living is too high here. 
Duck Hunting in Eastern North Carolina 
I N the museum of the North Carolina Depart¬ 
ment of Agriculture, at Raleigh, there are 
specimens of almost every bird and animal 
known to the State, past and present. Leading 
by far any other county of the State, the dis¬ 
play credited to Craven is one to make any true 
sportsman’s heart beat faster and send his 
thoughts chasing wool over the waters, swamp 
lands and fields of this huntsman’s paradise. 
There are deer, bear, turkey, geese, wild hogs, 
fish of all kinds, alligators still plentiful, and 
all it takes to get them is the hardihood to go 
into their native haunts, catch them by their 
tails, and pull them out. But this tale has noth¬ 
ing whatever to do with that. 
One day last fall (or autumn, as our 
brethren north of the M. & D. line will have 
it) I was showing a visiting gentleman through 
the collection above referred to, and incident¬ 
ally remarked, as we viewed the case devoted 
to waterfowl, that it w'as my custom to take a 
few days each year and endeavor to kill enough 
duck to bamboozle my neighbors into believing 
that I was certain death to any duck passing 
my way. Now, it happens that the gentleman 
referred to is a very ardent fisherman, delighting 
in the chase of the trout and the song of his 
gossamer line, but up to the time spoken of, 
held my bosom friend, the shotgun, in open con¬ 
tempt. “By George,’’ he said at last, “I believe 
I would like to try that some time.” And it so 
happened that a cold wet morning in November 
By GEORGE BEE 
found us out on one of the numerous creeks that 
stretch out into the tall and uncut and into the 
swamps, from the lower Neuse River. Trim¬ 
mings as usual—same type of guide, same kind 
of house, same wood fire, same hospitality (at 
$5 Per). 
My partner, who we will call Bob hence¬ 
forth. was a good sport, albeit unaccustomed to 
the little details and disappointments that make 
trips of this kind renewers of humanity, from 
the soul out, and Said not a word when we 
pulled out into the rain. I could see, though, 
that lie was just a little bit surprised. A row 
of a couple of miles into the veritable wilder¬ 
ness brought us to a point where two arms of 
the creek spread out, leaving a point of swamp 
running down to a V between, and we crowded 
out and found S. R. O. on the roots of a big 
cypress, whose low-hanging boughs, together 
with the tall swamp grass, afforded a natural 
blind. Our boatman threw out the stool and 
pulled away down the creek, to be seen no more 
until he should call for us late that afternoon. 
Our view down the creek was unobstructed 
for half a mile, and on either side could be seen 
droves of ducks, which contained, by what Bob 
claimed as a fair estimate, anywhere between 
one and five million each. He could not under¬ 
stand, he said, why we were not taken to a point 
near enough to the ducks to shoot them. 
Our boatman rowed head on into the first 
drove. They rose high into the air, and circling 
round, flew directly over 11s, headed as if for 
the uttermost parts of the earth, and due there 
that day. 1 said so to Bob after we had taken 
two shots each, and missed, lie replied, “I don’t 
know where they are going, nor at what time 
they are due to arrive, but wherever it is, I'll 
bet they make it.” And I felt very much the 
same way about it. Strange, isn’t it, how you 
can miss getting a duck out of a drove that al¬ 
most makes a blanket over you, cutting out your 
view of everything but ducks? But, sad to re¬ 
late, it can be done. 
On into the second drove the boat headed. 
These flew high and away from us, down stream, 
except three hard-headed youngsters, who, we 
supposed, wanted to show their independence. 
They were flying low, long necks outstretched, 
wings cutting the wind like scythe blades, with 
a rhythm of stroke that was beautiful to behold. 
Straight in they pointed, about fifteen feet above 
the water, but flying so fast that I had no hope 
of their showing up, rather expecting that they 
would go up one or the other arm of the creek. 
“Take the one in front,” I whispered to Bob, 
“and when you see his eyes, shoot.” A duck 
coming in, I know, is harder to kill than any 
other, but it was no time for explanation. 
What mysterious condition is it that comes 
over one at a time like this? What spirit is it 
that so accelerates the capacity of one’s con¬ 
sciousness? What goblin grabs your mind and 
A LONER DROPPED INTO THE DECOYS. 
