Forest and Stream 
Vol. LXXXI. February 28, 1914 No. 9 
On a Few Duck Hunts 
By R. H. McNair 
E N route to Washington some years ago I 
chanced to make the acquaintance of a 
pleasant man on the train. As we passed 
Havre de Grace, the conversation drifted into duck 
hunting on Chesapeake bay, and my traveling com¬ 
panion informed me that a good shot could en¬ 
joy a fine day’s sport on the bay for about 
seventydive dollars per. I was a medical student 
and the information “listened well,” but it sound¬ 
ed rather tall to my ears, 
and by way of disabus¬ 
ing his mind of the 
thought that Chesapeake 
bay, with its seventy-five 
dollars a day was in the 
same class with genuine 
sport, such as is in reach 
of every man, with 
enough coin to buy 
loaded shells, I gave him 
a true account of what 
I had actually experi¬ 
enced shooting mallard, 
teal, red heads, canvas- 
backs (the Chesapeake 
swells), wood duck, 
spoon bill and coots, on 
a chain of lakes extend¬ 
ing eighteen miles down 
the Mississippi Valley, 
from what was known 
as Clarks lake to the 
lower end of Ackland 
lakes, of which I think 
there were six or seven. 
My earliest acquaint¬ 
ance with duck shooting 
began before I knew 
how to shoot the fast¬ 
flying blue wing teal. I 
well remember my first 
afternoon on Clarks lake, which was owned by a 
planter who raised an enormous acreage in cot¬ 
ton. The lake, like the others mentioned, had 
been formerly the bed of the Mississippi river, 
which asks no odds of any man’s property when, 
aided by an overflow, it wishes to change its 
course. To empty the lake and thus to further 
enlarge his plantation, the owner had erected an 
enormous draining machine, with a powerful en¬ 
gine and water wheel. He succeeded only par¬ 
tially, and the result was the best and most access¬ 
ible duck pond I ever saw. Its deepest parts 
were shallow enough to wade in, and full of a 
luxuriant growth of grass which furnished pala¬ 
table seeds for the ducks. 
In the first hunting party of which I was a 
member, we had a cousin who had spent his early 
life in Canada. He was the most successful 
Photo by Cora June Sheppard 
hunter and one of the best shots I ever knew. A 
fine flock of teal came rushing by our blinds in 
graceful flig’ht, and my gun seemed to be of no 
service, other than to shoot holes in the air, I 
couldn’t see even a duck feather drop. When I 
said some things not worth while recording, 
cousin Frank laughed in much amusement at my 
disappointment and exasperation. But he was 
kind enough to come over to my blind and give 
me a few valuable hints as to how I should hold 
on the ducks. As I swore my gun was no good— ' 
how often a poor shooter tries to saddle the 
blame on a good gun—my teacher offered to let 
me try his gun, with which he chopped about 
every duck that he shot at within range. 
“Now mark, here comes a nice flock of teal— 
if you don’t score I’ll cut off your shirt tail. As 
they pass lead them about three feet.” Bang! 
Down come a duck. 
“Good, give it to them again!” Bang! Down 
come another. And then, instead of feeling pro¬ 
voked with cousin Frank for laughing at me, I 
felt like hugging him. 
For half or three-quarters of an hour we had 
fast and furious work, as the ducks came in to 
feed, and after dark we splashed our way to the 
camp under the big cypress trees, where we met 
the rest of our party, with all the ducks we 
cared to lug out of the lake. After eating a 
hearty supper of "broiled teal, good breakfast 
bacon, beaten biscuit and coffee, we lighted our 
pipes, related our various experiences, stretched 
out on a thick pallet of Spanish moss that had 
been pulled down by our cook, and covered our 
tired selves with gray army blankets, to sleep 
until the first mallard quacked at daybreak. 
When we awoke, a 
heavy mist hung over the 
lake, and soon after 
breakfast, a fine, misty, 
winter rain set in. Cousin 
Frank remarked what 
an ideal duck day it was. 
We waded straight across 
the lake to a point just 
opposite our camp, sent 
our two negro men, one 
to either end of the lake, 
to keep the ducks on the 
wing, as their tendency 
was to settle at the lake 
ends to feed where the 
grass was most abund¬ 
ant. Our blinds were 
located on the point 
over which most of the 
ducks flew, and all that 
day and through suc¬ 
ceeding ones during the 
same winter, we enjoyed 
sport which I am sure 
cannot be beaten on the 
Chesapeake or elsewhere. 
Once in a while one or 
more of the party was 
seen dipping his gun bar¬ 
rels into the water 
to cool the overheated 
metal. We had in our equipment a good re¬ 
triever—a lemon speckled pointer bitch—and I 
do not remember any crippled ducks getting 
away from Lassie. She went into the water after 
them with the eagerness of a well-trained setter. 
It is not hard to imagine the size of a bag under 
such conditions—a lake full of ducks, five breech 
loaders, and a good dog to bring in the dead and 
crippled. 
The prettiest shooting was at the teal, as they 
passed at tremendous speed. As they were pass¬ 
ing we would head the duck picked for target, 
and with the second barrel make a quartering 
shot, aiming just behind the wing, which seemed 
to be the most vulnerable spot. 
When the shooting ended we called in our men 
and loaded them with ducks. Each one of the 
party took a share of what was left,, waded for 
With His Old Pump He Got the Bag. 
