FOREST AND STREAM 
275 
Duck Shooting—Two Hours From New York 
By Hayseed. 
O F COURSE it takes longer than two hours 
to get where the ducks live. If one can 
reach his home station in two hours from 
New York his point of view is that of the time¬ 
table, even though his house be as far from the 
depot as the abiding place of these Long Island 
ducks; so I’ll stick to two hours, admitting it 
comes nearer stretching the truth than any subse¬ 
quent statement hereinafter set forth. 
I had asked my friend, counsellor and general 
overseer, Dr. Bobs, to dally a day with the ducks 
at “our Club.” If the Barrel Bay Gun Club were 
an elaborate ducking abattoir, I should call it 
“my Club,” but it is such a little club, and has 
such dandy shooting and such a fine membership 
of true sportsmen, that “my Club” becomes a real 
presumption. We motored down in the doctor’s 
car instead of taking the train. As he was for 
the time being my host, I had to listen to him 
talk. This is the price one pays to a motor man 
for the privilege of riding with him. As I knew 
my time would come the next day, I tried to pos¬ 
sess my soul in patience, but after a two-hour 
fusilade on “vis medicatrix naturae,” “epluribus 
unum,” and “the importance of the classics in 
developing presence of mind,” I realized that 
nothing short of the hand of Providence would 
ever put me even with that doctor. As the reader 
will note, the law of compensation did get in its 
work, but that comes later in the story. 
Three men were at the club; we, as latest ar¬ 
rivals, had first choice of guide or grounds. We 
chose grounds, and drew Gorgeous Gorge, the 
youngest guide who promptly selected Hell Hole, 
a warm spot probable even in late November. 
Gorge had seen a large body of “Blacks” settle in 
this old feeding ground toward evening as he 
came in from further west. 
The usual short sleep and hasty breakfast got 
us an early start toward our five-mile objective 
the next morning. A recalcitrant motor said 
“nay” to our enthusiasm, and what the motor 
says usually goes, so 8:30 saw us just setting out 
our decoys, and settling ourselves in our sneak 
boats at the edge of a five-acre pond leading 
out into the big bay through a narrow inlet. The 
decoys danced in a light southwest breeze; the 
air, at least, in that vicinity was nicely tempered, 
and the sky was clear and everything ideal for 
the shooter, but somewhat dubious for the shoot¬ 
ing. 
We had been down in our blinds perhaps half 
an hour, and were beginning to wonder if any¬ 
thing could tempt a duck to fly on a day like 
this, while all nature seemed to naturally settle 
into somnolence, when suddenly a little speck 
of a prospect dead ahead developed into a black 
duck making straight for the blind. It was 
slightly on the doctor’s side, and, therefore, his 
first shot, but as may be gathered already by the 
reader, we aren’t excessively polite to each other, 
and he knew, and he knew that I knew, there 
would be no postponement of either of our rights 
beyond the letter of the law, and therefore when 
the bird swung over on my side of the fence I 
was almost, though not quite, too excited to nail 
him; anyway, it took the second barrel. As I 
looked across, the doctor was breaking his gun— 
he had already broken several of the command¬ 
ments, and ejaculated with set teeth: “See what 
a dratted, consummate idiotic fool trick I have 
done! Forgot to load my gun. Why, Hayseed 
(that’s me, or I; take your choice, you will be 
disappointed with either), I won't get over that 
handicap the whole day.” I felt sorry for him, 
and told him so; then he cussed me some more 
and subsided. A few minutes later I said: “Doc, 
I'm on the wrong side of you—you know I’m 
left-handed.” “I knew something was the trou¬ 
ble,” muttered the doctor; “to shoot with a left- 
handed man is hoodoo enough; to shoot on his 
wrong side is inviting death.” And so we crossed 
over and resettled ourselves, I taking the left- 
hand blind facing the water, which most old 
shooters will tell you is wrong, but they don’t 
know—they shoot with a left-handed man once 
in twenty times maybe. I have been compelled to 
shoot with one for forty years, and have given 
some study to the subject. When shooting from 
a fixed position, the left-hand shooter should 
shoot from the left side; in this way the two 
cover fifty per cent, more territory, and cover it 
well. 
Soon all was peaceful again—-the doctor had 
recovered his temper, and we were slinging 
sweet “bon mots” as to each other’s shooting 
ability. I wonder if in that last day we will be 
held accountable for all the nice things we have 
said to fellows’ faces? I trust not. Just then a 
single broad-bill swung in from my side close 
into the decoys; he was into the doctor’s pasture 
before I could pull. I heard click-click from the 
other blind, and then I pasted him and he fell 
dead. I looked at the doctor—he was red, but 
fortunately speechless. A few minutes later in 
a low but dangerous tone of voice, he hissed to 
the guide: “Do you know, Gorge, I took my 
shells out as I changed blinds, and I’ll be damned 
if I didn’t forget to put them back. What’s the 
matter with me, anyway?” The explanation was 
not really necessary, but it relieved him, and 
while I felt apologetic at getting all the shooting, 
thought it safer not to speak of it. 
Time passed and nothing happened for perhaps 
half an hour; I saw from the corner of my eye 
the doctor furtively break his gun once in a while 
to see if the shells were still there, but said noth¬ 
ing. 
Off in the distance we could see a pair of black 
ducks working our way—curiously every duck 
we had seen so far had come to the blind, and 
therefore hope was high. After a few heart 
throbs and heart quaves the pair settled down 
over the decoys. Bang!—and I smashed one with 
my first barrel; then, after an interminable si¬ 
lence in the boat, I fetched the other fellow with 
a long, lucky left. Turning, I noted that the doc¬ 
tor was no longer red, but white; he took out his 
handkerchief, and mopped his face, then slowly 
opened his gun and there lay two shells in place. 
A look of relief, then a smile crept over his 
countenance. “For heaven’s sake, doctor, what 
is the matter with you?” “Thank God! nothing; 
I pulled the right trigger, and when it did not go 
off I got scared clean through, and never pulled 
the second barrel at all. I decided something 
had been tampering with my brain—I tell you it 
was a great relief to find those shells in place, 
and that one had merely snapped and not dis¬ 
appeared.” It meant so much more to the 
learned man to find his “think tank” all right 
than to bag two ducks, that he actually became 
good-natured over his misfortune. 
This ought to be a lesson to doctors and law¬ 
yers, or other high-brows—not to exhaust their 
mental pabulum when out shooting simply be¬ 
cause the other fellow can't get away. For duck 
shooting does require some brains, and the few 
must be on tap at the right moment. 
The day passed—about every thirty minutes a 
few black ducks or broad bills would look in on 
us; about noon two shy picket tails shot in and 
made us a visit; they came to play and remained 
to stay; which may be better rhyme than Eng¬ 
lish. At two o’clock we had twelve birds—at 
three the bunches began to come in in twos, tens 
and fifties. A very good rule the club has re¬ 
cently adopted prevented much shooting. No 
member is allowed to shoot into a bunch of black 
ducks numbering more than ten, nor when large 
numbers are in the near vicinity. This rule pro¬ 
tects our shooting more than almost any other. 
It is also great fun to lie and watch these beau¬ 
tiful birds swoop and hover and leap. You can 
see their eyes and the brilliant coloration; you 
can pick out the wing feathers; in fact, get really 
acquainted with birds you love and think you 
know. No one loves shooting better than the 
writer, but down in the bottom of every shooter’s 
heart is a real love for the birds that have given 
him so much pleasure, and as he sees them at 
their sports it modifies his desire to see them in 
their panics. Instead of a streak across the sky 
you will have the visual image of a live, breath¬ 
ing bird that looks almost as natural as its photo¬ 
graph, if not as familiar. 
A YEAR’S PROGRESS IN PROTECTION. 
Four new national bird reserves were estab¬ 
lished during the last year, raising the total num¬ 
ber of national bird reserves to sixty-four. There 
were also fourteen state game preserves set aside 
in the United States, and four in Canada. 
Several important changes have been made in 
provisions protecting big game. Colorado and 
North Dakota prohibited all killing of deer for a 
term of years, and Saskatchewan has provided a 
close season throughout the year for all big game 
south of latitude 52 degrees. Laws protecting 
does at all seasons were enacted in Florida, 
Nevada and Wyoming, but South Dakota repealed 
a statute of this kind enacted in 1911. Wyoming 
and Montana, heretofore affording the principal 
hunting for elk and sheep, have recently limited 
the hunting area to a few counties in each state, 
where the seasons generally have been shortened. 
Wyoming has adopted the innovation of allowing 
the killing of female elk only under ordinary 
resident licenses and requiring licenses to obtain 
a special $15 license to kill a bull or an additional 
cow. Montana also prohibited the killing of ewes 
and lambs. Other states in which elk or sheep 
were protected for a term of years or by per¬ 
petual close seasons are Nevada, Oregon, Utah 
and Washington. 
CAROLINA NEEDS PROTECTION. 
A recent editorial article in the Spartansburg 
(S. C.) “Herald” called attention to the fact that 
the quail in that region are being exterminated 
rapidly, and that if some action is not taken soon 
it will be too late to save the birds. Two meth¬ 
ods of improving conditions were suggested, one 
being to shorten the season, closing it on January 
31st instead of March 1st, and the other prohib¬ 
iting the shooting of quail with automatic or 
pump guns. 
