Dec. 27, 1913. 
FOREST AND STREAM 
819 
say, because the writer insisted on making a full 
meal. They were in their blind, waiting with 
decoys set, before it came daylight, and it was 
a good stand, too, the best on the slough, two 
hundred yards up wind from mine, with first 
chance at every bird coming, and at half those 
swinging for my decoys besides. It was yet quite 
dark when a fusillade of four shots greeted a 
mud hen, that, with legs dragging behind and 
wings dripping water, crossed outside their de¬ 
coys, and, wondering what had happened and 
what holiday the fireworks were to celebrate, 
kept on. Then two bluebill plumped down close 
in front. The reverend shooters were reloading 
and didn’t see them. 
“M'ark! in decoys,” the writer shouted. Both 
stood up. The rector riddled one decoy, the 
canon another, and the ducks shook the water 
from their wings in derision and came on to me. 
It was a fair morning flight. Both visitors 
were industrious in shooting and ineffectual in 
aim. but were having a great time. Nearly every 
bird missed came the way of the first two, so 
not much was lost by giving my friends first 
shot. 
After awhile they tired from so much un¬ 
usual exertion and sat down for a rest, a smoke 
and a talking bee. Their cigars were good, as 
an occasional whiff of smoke coming with an 
eddying current of wind testified. Their stories 
must have been better, judging from the peals of 
laughter that rang out. 
From a gunner’s standpoint this was irregu¬ 
lar business. While it was at its height a flock 
of thirty bluebill showed, headed up the slough. 
A call of “Mark” passed unheeded. The ducks 
dipped to the decoys, wings set, feet down, pre¬ 
pared to light, when came the climax to a story 
followed by much laughter and excited conversa¬ 
tion. Naturally the bluebill family showed re¬ 
sentment. They were used to being shot at, but 
in their career as ducks never before had they 
been held to ridicule, and they indignantly gath¬ 
ered themselves together and started for the 
bunch of friends they thought they saw a little 
further on. One could imagine the patriarch of 
the flock growling out: 
“Laughed at us, did they? Laughed at us. 
Well, we’ll stand no such treatment from them; 
up here no one will make fun of us.” 
He was right, but something worse was in 
store and two loads of deadly sevens cut through 
the flock, eight falling at the first barrel and 
three at the second. 
“Rather have seen you make that shot than 
to have tried it myself,” shouted the rector, but 
his time was coming. 
An hour before noon the drizzle dried up 
and once or twice the sun struggled through a 
rift in the rain clouds. Ducks stopped flying and 
shots were few and far between. A lone goose 
flew honking over the cane tops close to the 
visitors and deviated neither to right nor left, 
nor swiftened his flight in response to five ounces 
of shot fired in his direction, nor ceased his 
honking at sound of the four loud reports. Then 
someone put up a little bunch of bluebill feeding 
half a mile below and they came low and fast 
to the minister’s decoys. This time they were 
seen. They lit and were welcomed with four 
carefully aimed shots. Two remained, shot 
through the head, and as birds hit in that way 
will sometimes do, swam around in a circle, heads 
up, showing too much life to please the novices 
who, without even reloading, were trying to shove 
out and gather in their spoils. They had for¬ 
gotten the boat was securely tied to the blind 
stakes, besides it had settled deeply in the weeds 
and mud and wouldn’t budge. 
“What shall we do?” asked the canon. 
“What shall we do?” responded the rector. 
“Better shoot them again,” suggested one. 
“No,” replied his friend. “I have only five 
shells left.” 
“I’ll tell you,” then said the rector. “I’ll wade 
out and kill them with an oar; the water isn t 
so vfery deep and I believe the weeds and mud 
will hold me; at all events I will take the chance.” 
“You are foolish,” the canon told him. "You 
certainly will wet your feet,” but while he was 
talking, the rector was removing his rain coat, 
then his undercoat, and with an oar to steady 
himself, stepped over the side into a thick bunch 
of cane, the roots of which held so he only sank 
to his ankles. 
“There, I told you,” he called exultantly; 
“I knew it wasn’t deep.” 
The next step, water came to his waist, and 
then to his armpits, at which time the writer 
took notice and started to the rescue. 
The rector was game—dead game. He kept 
on, for he was of the kind that when starting 
after a thing, eventually gets it. One of the 
ducks making crazy circles swam right at him. 
“Was afraid he’d miss part of the show,” 
the canon said afterward. It was soundly 
whacked over the head, then thrown where it 
could be reached from the blind. 
“Let that duck alone; I’m after him,” the 
reverend wader shouted, his mouth just above 
water, as my boat approached. 
Although the bird showed signs of recovery, 
it was no use depriving the rector of his pleasure, 
so with gun at ready in case of need, I watched, 
until a blow from the oar flattened the bird and 
the rector got hands on him, then steadying him¬ 
self by holding to my boat—it was too small to 
take him aboard—he waded back. 
“Empty your boots and we will hurry to the 
house,” I told him. 
“Nothing of the kind,” he responded. “I’m 
not going in while there’s a shot in the locker, 
and he didn’t, even if it was two hours before 
his five shells were fired. 
He felt no ill effects afterward from play¬ 
ing retriever, and both he and the canon agreed 
as they took train that night, 
“This has been a red-letter day in our lives, 
one never to be forgotten.” 
Verily there are no better men, and none who 
enjoy an outing more, than those who have the 
care of souls, and whose business it is to pilot 
humanity safely through the rocks and over the 
shallows of this life to the great beyond. 
GOLDEN GATE. 
Enthusiastic anglers recently journeyed to 
the mouth of the Russian River and with shovels 
and scrapers removed the bar which has been 
keeping steelheads from entering that stream. 
The foul water in the river has been replacd by 
clean water from the ocean and from the small 
tributaries that are again flowing and some good 
sport is now being enjoyed. One more heavy 
rain will place this stream in good shape for the 
season. From the Eel River word has been re¬ 
ceived that steelheads are running and a few city 
anglers are visiting that section. A few fish are 
now being taken on Paper Mill Creek and con¬ 
ditions on all streams are improving. 
The take of fish eggs for the season at the 
United States hatcheries at Mill Creek, Battle 
Creek, Baird and Hornbrook is double that of 
last year. The take for the season is estimated 
at about 45,000,000, with most of these coming 
from the Mill Creek and Battle Creek stations. 
All of these are salmon eggs, with about 2,000,000 
of them eggs of the silver salmon. 
The California Fish and Game Commission 
has forwarded a shipment of striped bass to the 
Hawaiian Islands and word has been received 
that this was received in good condition. 
TOP RAIL 
Eider-ducks, especially when young, are very 
good eating, which reminds me of a story: 
Ludivine’s Ragout. 
I knew a very decent woman whose name 
was Ludivine and who lived at a fishing station 
on the north shore of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. 
Her husband was a fisherman and she had a great 
reputation along the coast for making codfish 
soup and eider-duck ragout. I had seen Gregoire 
lick his lips every time his wife had made him a 
moniak stew or a codfish soup, so I determined 
some day to taste these dainties. 
One afternoon we had made a very good 
catch and were sailing back with our boat loaded 
down with cod, all our four sails up before a light 
breeze from the southwest. A flock of eiders 
were swimming along about a hundred yards 
away from us. They were young ones of the pre¬ 
vious year, not yet rendered tough by maternity 
and we knew their flesh to be as tender as it was 
savory. They were too far off for shot, and my 
Marlin was very light. Our ragout was in front 
of us, keeping its distance without losing an inch. 
I was very impatient and hungry. Such a good 
ragout! 
“Why don’t you let drive at them?” said 
Gregoire. I could not resist and seizing my rifle, 
I fired right into the brown of them. The flock 
flew away, leaving two behind which we picked 
up dead and so had the materials for Ludivine’s 
stew. While we were curing the fish she did the 
cooking, and when we finished our work, our din¬ 
ner was ready for us and we were ready for it 
with famous appetites. 
Ludivine was a strongly built, sunburnt and 
not bad-looking woman, most respectable in every 
way, with a family of five dirty children whose 
faces and hands she washed once a week. She 
was very hospitable and would have shared her 
last crust with a traveller, was very keen in the 
bargains she drove with the traders. She had a 
great disdain for the officiers, as the natives call 
all those who come down for the salmon fishing 
and whom they dislike because the latter object 
to their poaching their salmon rivers; the origin 
of the name is evidently due to the fact that 
formerly most of the salmon fishermen were 
British officers of the garrison stationed at Que¬ 
bec. She found that her pig fattened like a 
monsieur or gentleman, which is the name given 
by the natives to all who are not officiers or are 
not, like themselves, fishermen, trappers, traders, 
etc., such, for instance, as Government officials, 
tourists, etc. Finally, as I have already said, she 
was a good cook and we were about to taste her 
dainty dishes. 
I set to work at the soup which, to tell the 
truth, I did not find extra good and ate but little 
of, reserving myself for the ragout. At last it 
made its appearance. It really was very good; 
the birds were well cooked and tender; the gravy, 
of a very seductive brown color, was well made 
and well spiced. In fact, I liked the stew so much 
that I asked for the recipe. 
“Well,” said Ludivine, “it is very easy. You 
pluck and clean the birds, parboil them for a 
quarter of an hour, then cool them in cold water 
and put them in the pot, in the bottom of which 
you place a layer of very thin pieces of pork and 
onions cut very thin. You let it stew gently, put¬ 
ting in a little brown flour to thicken the gravy 
