790 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Dec. 20, 1913. 
Curly’s Duck Hunt 
O NE blustery October afternoon I met Curly 
on the street corner. He was rigged out 
in corduroys and wore a peaked corduroy 
cap. In the corner of his shrewd Irish eye lurked 
the battle light of the duck hunter. 
“You’re the very man Oim after lookin’ fer,” 
he cried enthusiastically. “Say, John, what a 
grand blow it is ter fetch the burds in, eh? Oim 
headin’ fer the cove this minute. Will yer go 
along?” 
Curly was an old acquaintance of mine, and 
famous in our native town for his ducking ex¬ 
ploits. True, he would occasionally return from 
a hunt in the Cove with a back load of sheldrakes, 
which to an admiring audience on the dock he 
would proudly display under the misnomer of 
canvas-backs; or bring home with exultation 
somebody’s tame swan in lieu of a wild one—but 
then again he would re-establish his reputation 
with a bag of “real” ducks; and so came at last 
to win the distinguished title of Curly, King of 
the Cove. 
After mentally consulting the weather condi¬ 
tions I decided that Curly’s estimate was correct 
and agreed to accompany him. 
“Now Oi’ll tell ye phwhat we’ll do,” he ex¬ 
plained. “We’ll take some grub and stay the 
night in that little shanty on the meaders. Take 
me wurd fer it the cove’ll be swimmin’ with ducks 
by termorrer morning. We'll have the best of all 
these other shooters round here, fer we’ll be on 
the spot while they’re breakin’ their hearts aginst 
the wind ter get there.” 
“All right, I’ll meet vou at three o’clock on 
Crawbuckie.” 
“Done,” said he; and forthwith we parted. 
An hour or two later we were in our duck 
boats rowing up against a stiff nor’west gale. 
We had launched them off the sandy spit of 
Crawbuckie, and were now headed for a belt of 
brown-yellow marsh which lay tucked in the up¬ 
per end of the Cove. The shanty Curly had 
spoken of stood on a level strip of ground over¬ 
looking the mouth of Meadow Creek, a serpen¬ 
tine waterway which intersected the mazes of the 
marsh. It was a “one-horse” affair, furnished 
with a couple of bunks and a little iron stove. 
But after the long cold pull up against the wind, 
it looked cosy enough to our eyes and comfort¬ 
able withal. 
A few hundred yards beyond the muddy bank 
on which we landed, the New York Central had 
filled in with sand and gravel, acres of marshland 
for railroad purposes. Derricks, steam-shovels 
piles of rails, and temporary working shacks were 
scattered about in all directions. Beyond this rose 
the wooded slopes of Croton Point, and through 
a natural gap in the land formation, we could see 
clouds of smoke rolling up from the brick yards 
that fronted on Haverstraw Bay. Just as we 
were drawing in our duck boats on the bank be¬ 
fore the shanty, a lonely teal scudded by us, 
whipped around the bend of Meadow Creek, and 
sped away over the marsh, twisting and dodging 
like a bumble bee. Curley made a snatch for his 
By PAUL BRANDRETH 
gun, as the whistle of wings caught his ear. 
Then he sat back on the bow of the boat and 
watched the black dot of the vanishing teal. 
“Yer sneakin’ little divil, you,” he muttered. 
“If I’d only had me gun in me hands. Well, 
enjoy yerself while yer have the chance, fer I’m 
thinkin’ ye’ll not have these marshes much longer. 
Phwhat with all the dang railroads and brick 
yards ye’ll have ter be layin’ yer eggs in a parlor 
car or on top of a brick kiln.” 
I left him musing over the sad inroads that 
the progressive energy of man inevitably makes 
in the haunts of all wild creatures. Inside the 
shanty I deposited the grub bag and proceeded 
to kindle a fire in the little stove. While I was 
doing this, a bull-like roar from Curly nearly 
took me off my feet and sent me flying to the 
door. 
“Look at that fer a bunch! Look at that 
fer a bunch!” he cried excitedly pointing sky¬ 
ward. I followed the direction of his finger and 
there, outlined against the stormy scud, saw a 
V-shape flock of wildfowl winging southward. 
Faintly to my ears came a weird familiar sound 
that resembled the barking of a small dog. 
“Phwhat a grand shthring of ducks,” vocif¬ 
erated Curly. 
“You big land-lubber,” I cried, “those aren’t 
ducks, they’re geese!” 
We watched them as they passed overhead. 
There were fourteen birds in the flock—big, lusty 
fellows, with long necks outstretched, and power¬ 
ful pinions working swiftly and steadily before 
the wind. Suddenly their line of flight slanted 
downwards. 
“Bejabbers! they’re goin’ ter loight,” cried 
Curley. And sure enough, after lowering several 
hundred yards at a gradual angle, we saw the 
geese trailing in scattered ranks just above the 
tumbled white-capped waves of the Cove. An¬ 
other instant and the whole flock plumped down 
into the rough water, and nothing remained to be 
seen but black dots which now and again 
bobbed into sight on the crest of a frothy swell. 
Without waiting to lose any time, I seized 
my gun, and started to shove off the duck boat. 
Curly watched me with stolid indifference. 
“Where’s your gun?” I asked somewhat im¬ 
patiently. 
“I’oim not goin’ after thim burds,” he re¬ 
turned ; “it's too dang rough.” 
“Why, man, they’re geese! Aren’t you com¬ 
ing?” 
“I don’t care phwhat they are,” said Curly, 
stubbornly, “they kin stay there. And let me 
tell you, John, if you go out chasin’ thim, you’ll 
see your finish, you’ll never come back.” 
“Well, good-bye, Curly,” I said, “Here she 
goes.” 
I shoved up the canvas screen on the bow of 
the boat, jumped in and pushed off. Curly, with 
a foreboding and mournful countenance, watched 
these preparations for what he believed was des¬ 
tined to be a watery grave. Then he turned away 
and walked toward the shanty. 
The lee of the short protected me from the 
full blast of the gale for some little distance out. 
Gradually, however, I left the zone of sheltered 
water behind. The little duck boat commenced 
to sag and plunge as she rode the heavy seas; 
and looking over my shoulder I could see the 
white caps chasing and rolling up under the stern. 
Gripping the scull oar tightly, I lay low and kept 
her going, only stopping now and again to take 
a cautious look at the bobbing black heads of the 
geese. 
At last, after a long, arduous scull, I com¬ 
menced to pull within range of the prospective 
quarry. I laid my gun handy, and worked gently 
on the oar. Now, I caught the glisten of gray 
and black feathers; now a glimpse of wary necks- 
raised above the tumbling waters. 
Foot by foot, yard by yard, I drew nearer 
and nearer. One cunning old “honker” on the 
outskirts of the flock began to swim about un¬ 
easily. Then, suddenly the whole lot bunched 
together. How I wished at that moment I had 
been within shooting distance! But they sepa¬ 
rated almost immediately and several commenced 
drying their wings. This infallible sign of pre¬ 
meditated flight made me put on steam, for I 
knew it would be only a matter of a few seconds 
before one. and all would clear themselves of the 
vicinity. 
Just about this time I realized that the birds 
were working up fast against the wind on my 
right hand, and were thus getting me broadside 
in the trough of the waves. Such a state of 
affairs would never do; so feeling that I couldn’t 
shorten the distance very much more, I cocked 
my gun and raised up over the screen. 
With a thunder of startled wings the four¬ 
teen geese jumped simultaneously into the air. 
I was close enough to catch the twinkle of their 
black, beady eyes; and pulling about two feet 
ahead of the old “honker” I let go. At the report 
he crumpled up and collapsed with a sousing 
splash. A big bird just behind him caught the 
contents of the second barrel, but although hard 
hit, did not fall. Anxiously I watched him as 
he labored in a crippled fashion across wind. 
Then, suddenly he seemed to recover himself and 
the last I saw of him was when he finally dropped 
far out in the river near the Rockland Light¬ 
house. As the seas were too high for me to 
think of following him up I retrieved the dead 
goose and started for shore. 
It took me just half an hour of the hardest 
kind of rowing to get into quiet water. When 
I stepped out of the boat on the bank before the 
shanty, my back was a solid glaze of ice gath¬ 
ered from the flying spray. 
Curly I found pacing up and down the bank 
trying to keep warm. He met me with a glum 
look. 
“Aren’t you sorry you didn’t come along?” 
I inquired blandly. Then I held up the prize for 
inspection. 
“Wonder what he’ll weigh,” Curly glowered. 
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” said he. 
“Honest, but it made me sick ter see ye riskin’ 
your loife fer that blamed burd.” 
