266 
camp, ate dinner, and saddled up for a ten-mile 
ride home. The sale of game was never thought 
of in that section, so two negro boys were mount¬ 
ed on ponies and a bunch of duck sent to each of 
our neighbors within reach. As our hunt ended 
on Saturday, a good many families enjoyed wild 
duck for Sunday dinner. 
I have had many amusing arguments with good, 
kind-hearted, humane people, over the cruelty of 
shooting wild ducks and other game birds, and 
have been even more amused to see the same 
people enjoy feasts of nice fat ducks or quail— 
and at the same time I wondered at their incon¬ 
sistency. But then that is quite a frequent char¬ 
acteristic of humanity. 
Upon returning from the university in the early 
eighties I spent many happy evenings home with 
my old hunting companion who had taught me 
the art of passing-shooting at ducks. We often 
smoked late into the night, going over the adven¬ 
tures of hunting deer, quail and ducks, and he 
told me many entertaining stories of his turkey 
hunts. He was master of the art of calling and 
killing the wild gobbler. A true blue sport he 
was, who considered it little short of a crime to 
pot a covey of quail when bunched on the ground; 
and he rarely shot into a flock of ducks on the 
water. 
I recall an exciting experience that he related 
to me, of a lonely duck hunt on one of the Ack- 
land lakes. He was encamped in the cypress 
swamp near the lake, and his coal black hunting 
horse, Jim Crow, was tied to a swinging limb 
nearby. He was awakened from a sound sleep 
by the horse, who was restlessly pawing the 
ground and snorting in fright. The camp fire 
had almost died out. He jumped up, and upon 
reaching the spot where Jim was tied, found him 
trembling, with nervous fright. Not far off he 
heard a crash in the underbrush, and in a few 
moments there came a blood-curdling scream 
from a panther not many rods away. The horse 
bounded as though he had been shot, and the 
master had much difficulty in quieting him. Jim 
would not be satisfied until a fire had been built 
nearer to him, and he had his master within close 
proximity to his hitching tree. There were quite 
a number of ducks hanging up in camp, and the 
savory smell doubtless had attracted the hungry 
old cat in his midnight prowling. After getting 
a big fire going, my cousin selected a large live 
chunk and walked some distance around the 
camp, waving the fire brand and shouting to scare 
off the panther. After remaining up an hour to 
keep Jim company he heard no more of the pan¬ 
ther, and lay down to rest again. 
When the following winter came it proved to 
be another ideal season for southern duck shoot¬ 
ing. An extremely hard winter north had driven 
them to southern waters in enormous flocks. My 
cousin knew that I had become an enthusiastic 
lover of the duck hunt, who was willing to en¬ 
dure the wettest “duck day” with great pleasure, 
as long as the monotony of a dull drizzly day was 
relieved by the entertaining sight of ducks on 
the wing. He invited me to accompany him to 
one of the Ackland lakes on a hunt, where, he 
had learned from the negroes, there were great 
flocks of ducks “whut darkened de sky when dey 
flewed over.” 
We usually arrived at the lake in time for an 
afternoon hunt, and continued it through the fol¬ 
lowing day if the shooting proved good. We 
took a colored boy along to feed the horses, build 
fires and pull down Spanish moss for our bedding. 
Having selected a favorable spot for camping, 
we visited the north end of the lake, with Lassie 
to bring in the cripples and those that fell into 
the water, selecting a grass-covered knoll large 
enough to afford ample standing room for hunt¬ 
ers and dog. We had not long to wait for lively 
FOREST AND STREAM 
action. In the heavy mist of a southern winter 
day ducks do not seem to notice the would-be 
slayer, especially when they are hungry after the 
long flight south. That afternoon’s shoot, for 
two rapidly manipulated ten-bore breech-loaders, 
seemed not far short of the kills we have read 
of in the Dakotas by employed market hunters. 
A flock of mallard, teal or gray ducks would 
race into the feeding ground and came down on 
to the water with a splash. 
“Give the first barrel on the water, and then we 
will send in three more on the rise,” my com¬ 
panion whispered, and there remained very fre¬ 
quently three or four and sometimes more ducks 
fluttering on the water. Lassie plunged in and 
brought them to land, one after another. With 
a couple of large grain sacks I rubbed her as dry 
as possible, and when she began to show fatigue 
I chained her up and acted as retriever myself, 
the water being not more than three feet deep at 
that spot. 
The ducks came fast and furiously for an hour 
or more, and when they changed their tactics by 
selecting another feeding ground we were glad to 
call off the shoot for the day. Returning to camp 
with more game than we cared to carry for a 
long distance, we got to work with Dan, the negro 
boy, to aid us. We drew the ducks and hung them 
up on tree limbs. Then we stored away a good 
camp supper. Our menu was generally made up 
of ducks, bacon, biscuit and coffee, and my com¬ 
panion could make coffee as good as the best. 
After supper we sat for a time enjoying our 
pipes, and relating hunting stories, with Dan’s 
loud snoring for accompaniment. 
Finally the outdoor stillness was broken by a 
duet from two pesky hoot-owls. I often 
wondered if they thought that they could sing. 
One tuned up with a Who who—hoo hoo—who 
who—hoo hoo — who — a’ ! The other answered 
with the same notes, and when they got into full¬ 
voiced swing, they varied the tiresome, lonesome 
monotony by singing a Who, wha, wha — ha, ha, ha 
■ — who — hoo — ah! Cousin Frank suggested that 
they were singing for duck meat, and if one of 
them came within range—they sometimes were 
bold enough to perch on a limb over the camp— 
he shot a hole through the old bundle of musty 
feathers. 
He had a habit of frying a piece of bacon to 
eat inside of a cold biscuit, just before turning in. 
The blaze of our big log heap had died down, 
and we were dozing over the frying bacon. Sud¬ 
denly we were startled wide-awake by a great 
fluttering over the bright red chunks of fire. 
Cousin Frank grabbed his gun, which lay just be¬ 
hind him, and before I could think what was up 
he pointed it toward an over hanging tree limb 
and fired. Down came a bundle of musty owl 
feathers. The old thief had made a dive to get 
the nice piece of breakfast bacon which he evi¬ 
dently mistook for a juicy morsel of duck—but 
he had found out, to the great sorrow of Mr. 
Owl, “Who-who-hoo-hoo” it was trespassing on 
his domain of solitude, the lonely cypress swamp. 
We were up at the first gray streaks of dawn, 
and, entertained by the quacking of green-headed 
mallards, we prepared and ate breakfast. When 
the horses had been watered and fed, Dan got 
into a cypress canoe, which we had contracted 
with the old negro owner to use, and paddled 
around among the ducks to keep them stirred 
up. We got on to our knoll of the afternoon be¬ 
fore and soon opened fire, making rapid work for 
Lassie and the other retriever. 
What appealed to me most was when a flock 
of teal would swing in, swoop down to alight, 
and then, changing their minds, make off in a 
circle. Our four barrels with number five shot 
gave them a lively salute, and deprived each flock 
of several lively flyers. Occasionally a canvas- 
back ventured in and cousin Frank whispered, 
“Here comes one of those Chesapeake swells.” 
When the bird was within range and the gun was 
brought to bear on him, he did not return to 
feast on wild cherry seed at his feeding ground 
on Chesapeake bay. When a pair of mallards 
came rushing in Cousin Frank whispered, “now 
try your skill on a double.” Sometimes I scored. 
But the two ducks rarely got away. For the other 
gun could effectually wipe my eyes and add 
another bird to the pile. We shot until ten 
o’clock. Then the ducks began to leave the lake 
and scatter through the swamp. 
We had all the ducks that, together with our 
own weight, three good-sized’ horses could carry. 
After a good hearty lunch at noon we broke 
camp leaving, on our way out, a bunch of ducks 
at the cabin of the old man who owned the canoe. 
If my friend traveling toward Washington had 
not been satisfied then that southern duck shoot¬ 
ing was equal to, if not better than that found in 
Chesapeake, at seventy-five dollars per, I would 
have given the histories of succeeding winter 
hunts. 
HUNTER’S LICENSE NOT NEEDED? 
No license is necessary to hunt unprotected 
game at any time of year, according to an opin¬ 
ion recently set forth by Kinter B. Rodgers, game 
warden of Pennsylvania, in response to inquiries 
regarding this year’s licenses and interpretation 
of the game laws of the state. 
“There is nothing complicated about the law,” 
declared Mr. Rodgers. “The restrictions con¬ 
tained in the act of 1913 apply only in cases where 
protected game is sought. No resident of the 
county may hunt for protected game except dur¬ 
ing the ‘open season,’ and even then they must not 
hunt without first having procured a license. The 
only exception to this is when a man hunts on his 
own property, or on the adjacent property, after 
having obtained consent of the owner. 
“The law does not place any restrictions upon 
the hunting of birds or animals which are not 
protected, and in order to hunt or kill them no 
license is necessary at any time of the year. For 
instance, the fox or weasel may be killed at the 
present time anywhere within the state, without 
procuring a hunter’s license. Section 5 of the act 
of 1913 provides specifically that nothing in the 
law shall prevent the having of guns in the home 
for the defense of person or property, the shoot¬ 
ing of targets or hunting or shooting anything 
not protected by the laws of the commonwealth. 
“Under the state laws it will not be permissible 
to shoot any protected game until October I, 
when the rabbit season comes in, so that it is not 
necessary to procure a hunter’s license until that 
time. During the intervening months any birds 
or animals which are not protected may be killed 
without first procuring a license.” 
NEW LIGHT ON THE FOX. 
Fox hunting is as much fun for the fox as it is 
for the hunters, according to the theory of an 
Ohio sportsman whose plans for a chase were 
interfered with recently by a humane officer. The 
veteran fox-chaser says that the police represen¬ 
tative evidently does not understand the nature of 
the fox. They will come to a residence often 
where there are dogs and bark until the dogs are 
released so they can get a run. If a fox is feel¬ 
ing well he runs until the dogs are exhausted 
and if not he goes to the first hole he finds. When 
a fox gets too far ahead of a dog, this theory 
goes, he will sit down and wait for the dog to 
catch up. It was the fox hunter that got the law 
to protect the foxes. They never kill one and 
make it warm for those who injure one according 
to this huntsman. He says there is no dog that 
can catch a wild fox. 
sbfifiw nl at if 
