396 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Sept. 27, 1913. 
speeds it up till it seems as if, by comparison, 
the whole world was standing still? Your 
thoughts stray away, away, away. You think 
of things forgotten for months, maybe years; 
you remember things that you didn’t know you 
ever knew; insignificant happenings stand out 
in clear perspective; your recollection leaps back 
to your childhood, and then comes tumbling, fly¬ 
ing helter-skelter through all the things that 
have taken place since. You see again the old 
home where you played as a boy; you remem¬ 
ber the first time you ever went to school; your 
first sweetheart, the little girl in the gingham 
dress, swinging her book satchel, and the sweet, 
childish fright in her eyes when you told her 
you loved her; your boyish pranks, thousands of 
them, coming trooping through your brain. You 
see again the swimming hole; your fights with 
other boys; the times you licked and the times 
you got licked. Then come the incidents of 
later days. You wonder if everything is all 
right at home; you see the face of your little 
boy as he held it up for you to kiss good-bye, 
and you promised that one of these days he 
should be the one to go with you; you recall 
the wonder in his baby eyes as you spread your 
hands apart to show how many ducks you and 
he will bring back; the incidents of the outward 
journey are reviewed, the last faces you saw 
when you left town, the looks of the lonely 
station where you got off, what you had for 
breakfast, the swish of the water around your 
feet. Yes, they’re about in range now. 
* * * * * 
Bang! Bob’s gun went off right in my ear. 
The duck in front hesitated, folded up and drop¬ 
ped. The other two struck an incline and went 
over us at about forty feet. I tried a shot at 
the one in front, but he merely slipped his speed 
gear up another notch; I don’t believe he 
winked. The tail-ender stopped to look; stopped 
just about as long as it would take a gnat to 
wiggle. The delay cost him his life. 
On two separate occasions when Bob had 
seen a drove headed straight for our decoys he 
had said, in a stage whisper, "There they come!” 
The ducks heard it, and promptly altered their 
course to points out of range. I cautioned him 
about it, and at the third offense threw a hatful 
of dirty water in his face. He remembered after 
that to keep his mouth shut. We had varying 
success for an hour or so, till the sun came out. 
and the ducks left the creek and went out into 
the river. We had eleven ducks to our credit. 
We ate our lunch and rested as best we 
could until about 4 o’clock, when I saw a big 
bunch headed for our point. With all the at¬ 
tendant whistling of wings I thought of course 
Bob’s eye was on them also. While yet about 
300 yards away, Bob’s gun spoke. Friends of 
mine! Do I need to tell you that Forest and 
Stream doesn't publish the language that rushed 
for the opening? That shot broke my heart 
into a thousand pieces. “I got him ! I got him !” 
he yelled. Yes, he got him; a little hell-diver 
that was playing around among the decoys. 
Each came near marking the other off his 
list of friends right there, but in a minute we 
laughed and agreed to start over. Ten more 
ducks we got that day, and left for home just 
at dark. 
That night the moon was to be in eclipse. 
We saw from the water the big red ball slovdy 
covered by the black one, and the light from a 
beautiful shimmer of silver on the water and 
on the wet leaves fade until everything was en¬ 
veloped in blackness. Back to the house, to a 
good fire, dry clothes, a finger of liquid ambi¬ 
tion, and a supper that in town would have 
killed us both. Then we tumbled into bed, dead 
tired and sore, to sleep and dream of ducks, 
ducks, everywhere, and guns that wouldn’t fire 
to save your life. 
The Vanishing Shore Birds. 
Branchport, N. Y.. Sept. 16. —Editor Forest 
and Stream: This morning I was awakened just 
before sunrise by the crack of smokeless shells, 
"Bang ! bang ! bang! bang!” 
It was not a joyful sound to me, for I had 
watched a family of blackducks from the time 
they first came out in the open after leaving the 
egg—three families of Florida gallinules and a 
family of grebes-—from the time the first egg 
w r as laid in the nest until the present time, and 
the kildeers, solitary sandpipers, greater and 
No spring shooting has given the ducks a chance 
to nest on many inland waters where they have 
not been known to nest in years before. Any 
open season at all opens the door to the pot¬ 
hunter to shoot everything, for you can seldom 
catch him. He feels perfectly safe. I heard 
a farmer say when asked if he was going hunt¬ 
ing: “No, I am too busy now, but if the law 
won’t let me hunt only when I am busy, I can 
get ’em some time, anyway.” Verdi Burtch. 
The Moose oi\ the Cover. 
The photograph on the cover shows a fine 
moose secured last September by George M. 
Lincoln, of Malone, N. Y. The spread is fifty- 
six inches, and there are twenty-eight points, 
while the right palm is sixteen inches broad and 
the left thirteen inches. The horns are finely 
balanced on the head, one of the features being 
the large brow antlers which protrude about an 
inch beyond the end of the nose. 
The moose was taken near Lac Sorcier, Mas- 
- 
t 
RED-BACKED SANDPIPERS. 
Photograph by Verdi Burtch. 
lesser yellowlegs, and the little peeps from the 
time they arrived from the North. 
1 I uilt a blind in the edge of the flags where 
I sat many times for four to six hours at a 
time and watched and photographed these birds 
while they were feeding and resting or playing, 
and now I knew that they were to be shot. 
The poor little remnant of our shore birds have 
got to go. This morning guns could be heard 
all along the lane. Looking down to the marsh 
I saw a big lazy lout in a boat, partially con¬ 
cealed by the flags, picking off the gallinules as 
fast as they came out in sight. In another boat 
out on “the basin” were two men, one rowing 
and another in the bow with a gun. They were 
chasing the grebes around, compelling them to 
dive. Then as they came up the man in the bow 
would shoot. An American bittern, aroused by 
the noise, arose and circled out over the flags, 
when bang! and it fell in a crumpled heap. 
And soiiie men call this sport! 
Oh. why w r as man born with this lust to 
kill? Why does he want to go out and destroy 
every living creature that wears feathers or fur? 
It is a question of but a very few years 
when there will be no shore birds. The Federal 
bird law may help some, but it is too late to 
help any this year. A very short open season 
on everything is the only salvation for the game. 
kinonge county, Quebec. VIr. Lincoln’s com¬ 
panion also shot a moose on this trip. Several 
other fine heads were seen. Wonderful trout 
fishing made the trip one not soon forgotten. 
Jes’ Waitin’ Fer Fall. 
Jess waitin’ for fall these summer days — 
Kain’t do very much, it seems, 
But think about when the soft gray haze 
O’ fall ’ll veil the hot sunbeams; 
When the hills ’ll show their ruddy cheeks— 
An’ the bobolinks begin to call; 
Kain’t do nothin’ these last few weeks — 
Jess waitin’ fer fall. 
Seems like a feller jess sets an’ dreams 
He kin hear the wild geese flyin’ by, 
An’ see in the clear an’ singin’ streams 
The soft reflection o’ the sky; 
When the wizardry o’ autumn lays 
Its robe o’ glory over all; 
Ain’t doin’ much these last few days — 
Jess waitin’ fer fall. 
Jess waitin’ fer fall while the days go by 
An’ the river sings in the summer night; 
A tear creeps into a feller’s eye 
When he sort o’ forecasts that delight. 
The way of life is many a mile, 
An’ the chance fer happiness is small; 
Ain’t much good fer a little while- 
jess waitin’ fer fall. 
—St. I.ouis Post-Dispatch. 
