588 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Nov. 8, 1913. 
not be removed were buried; clothes, books and 
such. Included in the “such” were a few loaded 
paper shells. In some way fire got among the 
things, burned a little and smoldered a whole 
lot. It reached the shells, charred the shot ends 
of some and melted the shot without exploding 
the powder. For years a number of these, with 
the shot all fused and run together were kept 
as relics, but finally got lost in moving. 
The recoil of a heavily loaded gun in those 
black powder days affected different persons dif¬ 
ferently, of some it lamed the shoulder, others 
it made flinch every time trigger was pulled, but 
the most unfortunate were those to whom it 
gave shooting headache. This last was the 
writer’s weakness. Nothing hurt his shoulder, 
not even the six-gauge with its twelve-dram 
load, for his shooting shoulder was much the 
thickest of the two and tough as sole leather, 
but his headache, sometimes of a hot day, 
would almost blind him, and once when he 
would not give up and quit, nearly resulted in 
congestion of the brain. 
It was the first day of one of these Texas 
trips, with a hot sun and little or no wind. He 
shot away in five hours, between ten and three 
o’clock, two hundred and fifty six-dram loads. 
His head soon commenced aching badly, but he 
was doing good work and paid no attention to 
it. Along toward two o’clock, with fifty loaded 
shells left, the headache became almost unbear¬ 
able. It ached from the base of the brain up, 
with terrific shooting pains, and each shot 
blinded him for an instant. Every succeeding 
shot hurt worse than the one before. It was 
pull, listen to hear if the duck fell, then dip 
water by the hat full and pour it over his head, 
and as soon as he could see, load and repeat the 
performance. Be sure, too, no long chances 
were taken. Toward the end a fine large flock 
of canvas came in close. Two were crossed 
and killed with the first barrel, then almost by 
guess the second barrel was fired. To this day 
it is a matter of doubt if one was killed or not. 
The writer thinks he heard a splash after it, 
but the second shot, coming so closely after 
the first, was like a blow from a hatchet, split¬ 
ting the head from crown to base. It was a full 
minute before he had strength to dip water, and 
five until he was able to load and get ready for 
the next duck. Foolish? Worse than 1 that; 
but was there ever a zealous duck hunter who 
wasn’t crazy once in a while? 
Finally the last shell was shot away, and 
the shooter, who was a complete wreck, sat in 
the box while Johnnie was picking up some 
dead ducks that had drifted in shore, and 
mourned, actually mourned, because he had 
brought no more ammunition, and kept saying 
things to the many birds that lit in his decoys, 
which were neither pretty nor complimentary. 
Looking back, it would have been almost suicide 
to have shot twenty-five times more, certainly 
brain fever would have resulted. 
That night, in reloading, powder was cut to 
three drams and shot to of an ounce. Next 
day two hundred and fifty shells again were 
used in the same stand. Very bad work was 
done, not quite half so many ducks being killed 
as the previous day, and it was a full week be¬ 
fore “Richard was himself again” after that 
first day’s pounding. 
Once previously, the writer earned every 
duck he killed. It was on his first trip after 
Texas ducks, and this time it was cold weather 
that bothered, and largely then because he was 
dressed in thin, summer clothing. A sailboat 
was his schooner, an old wreck of an oysterman, 
his captain, mate and crew. His stopping place 
the Morgan’s Point PJotel. 
There came a norther of unusual severity, 
bringing much ice and some snow. It was so 
cold that in places nine inches of ice froze 
around Galveston Bay, and where the bay was 
shallow, ice extended from shore to shore. The 
flats, bayous, creeks and ponds around Morgan’s 
Point were all nearly solid ice. The hotel, on 
a hill and set up on posts, giving the wind full 
sweep under it, was as cold as cold could be. 
The good lady who entertained us, did all she 
could for our comfort. I say “our,” for the 
writer’s better half was his companion; but 
the single stove on the place was in the kitchen, 
where it was used for cooking, and the only 
time* it gave heat was on a warm summer day. 
The parlor grate was small, and there was but 
little fuel for it, so everybody shivered and 
shook, then shivered some more. At last the 
women folks piled into bed, but the writer 
watched a constant stream of ducks, mostly 
canvas, flying from outside up a narrow channel, 
evidently looking for a place to feed. It seemed 
too bad to miss such shooting, and it was only 
a quarter of a mile from the hotel, too. Vain 
efforts were made to get the “crew” excited so 
he would help launch a skiff and carry material 
for a blind. 
“Wouldn’t go over yonder, not fer all the 
money in the biggest bank in Galveston. No, 
sir, not for a thousand dollars in cash,” was his 
answer to a liberal offer of advance in wages for 
his services. “Would freez.e to death, sure,” 
and so the day passed and not a duck was 
killed. 
That night it was so cold nearly all the 
pelicans froze and some who were not pelicans 
came near freezing. 
The channel was still open when morning 
came and there were so many ducks, it looked 
like every bird around the bay was flying to 
keep warm. About noon the “crew” agreed to 
ferry the writer across to a little spit of sand 
that ran to the channel’s edge, and to return 
for him when called by signal. A dozen decoys 
were set along the ice, a stout box bottom up 
placed on the end of the sand point for a seat, 
and with no blind, no cover, just sitting hunched 
up like a muskrat in a spring freshet, the writer 
waited, every blast of cold wind penetrating his 
thin coat and thinner underwear so he was al¬ 
most frozen before a shot was fired. In fixing 
things, some water splashed on the box bottom 
and it was quite wet when he sat down. A little 
water more or less cut no figure, but it made a 
lot of ice, so when the first bunch of ducks 
came the shooter was frozen fast to the box 
and the box was frozen in the sand. This was 
Texas, too, not Iowa or Illinois. 
The ducks were in a hurry; they were not 
stopping any to see who their funny friend was 
squatting on the point. Tests made over a 
measured mile on the Illinois River showed that 
canvasbacks when in a hurry can do a hundred 
and twenty-five miles an hour, and these were 
doing it. To get full swing for his gun, when 
the ducks were coming within range, the writer 
jumped a standing with a quick spring. There 
was a sound of ripping and tearing—something 
gave. It wasn’t the box, either; but without 
stopping to count damages, both barrels were 
fired. Not a duck fell; not one deviated an inch 
from his course, and the parlor windows, too, 
were full of women folks anxious to see how 
good a shot this man from up North was. 
The ducks kept straight up the channel. 
When almost out of sight one appeared to light, 
then another did the same, and in due time, 
drifting with the current, two white-back canvas 
came floating down and lodged on the point, 
both dead, one with seven pellets of shot 
through him, and the other with nine, as was 
found afterward, but both were struck a little 
behind. 
Oh! but it 'was cold sitting on that box. A 
handkerchief made only an indifferent cushion; 
more water was splashed every time a duck was 
retrieved, if anything froze to the box now 
—well, we will draw a veil over what would 
have happened. A change of position was soon 
made from sitting to kneeling, and when that 
became tiresome, to standing. It made no dif¬ 
ference to the ducks; they were bound to fly 
along that open water, and if no quick move¬ 
ment was made, they kept the same course, 
flock after flock. 
I he hundred shells brought along were 
used in about two hours, and frozen almost stiff 
as some of the dead pelicans, the writer made 
signal and the “crew” came after him. 
“You should have taken a quart of whisky 
along, ’ remarked the "crew” as he was packing 
shell box and gun up the steep bank to the 
hotel. 
“Whisky! Whisky!” he was answered. “If 
I was a whisky drinker, the exposure over 
yonder would kill me. Fifty—yes, a hundred 
times, with a bottle of cold coffee, I have 
frozen out a crowd of whisky toting duck shoot¬ 
ers; been first out, last in and high gun, times 
without number, and the colder it got and the 
more it stormed, the better I was suited. Don’t 
talk whisky to me.” From which statement the 
"crew dissented, for drink had been the rock 
on which his life was wrecked. 
It required the strategy of an Indian to 
avoid curious eyes and reach some place where 
damages could be repaired before dinner, and 
it was two years before an attack of neuralgia, 
brought on by this exposure, was finally shaken 
off. 
Believe it or not, the writer never was so 
cold before, never so cold since and never will 
be so cold again unless in the Great Beyond 
his future home should be in that dreary frozen 
sea of eternal ice which Dante pictures. 
"That night the question arose how those 
wet under garments were to be dried. No use 
hanging them up—they’d freeze. What could 
be done? In camping, such a dilemma was met 
by spreading anything wet, that was needed 
quickly, between the blankets, and it would be 
fit to wear by morning. There were no blankets 
here; perhaps a sheet would do. His wife un¬ 
doubtedly would object, but why mention it— 
just try the experiment and wait results. 
He did. He carefully spread his wet under 
garments between sheet and mattress, then re¬ 
tired. His wife, who was trying to thaw out in 
the kitchen, soon followed. 
“This bed is damp,” was the first thing she 
said. 
(Continued on page 603.) 
