370 
primers, I shoved away from the bank. The boat 
was cranky, but by kneeling well astern, with a 
knee braced against each side and paddling 
slowly, not only were the damaged bows kept 
out of water, but it was possible to hold the skiff 
steady and keep it from wobbling. 
A thick bunch of cane in the extreme north 
end of the lake made a fair blind. The boat, 
looking like an old mud-covered log, attracted 
no attention, and the ducks were so tame that 
neither blind, caller nor decoys were really 
needed. 
The lake was full of ducks which, at report 
of the gun, would get up and circle as mallards 
always will, and the shooting was so fast it be¬ 
came necessary several times to cool the sizzling 
gun barrels by dipping them in the water. Had 
there been a supply of ammunition I would have 
had the banner day of almost a lifetime spent in 
duck shooting, but the shells lasted not quite two 
hours and a half. All were used. A goose and 
a duck were killed with the buckshot loads. 
Nines were as good as sevens, and while the 
writer was picking up the dead birds—seventy-six 
mallards and a goose—he almost upset the boat, 
striking with his paddle at a bunch of ducks, 
and missing one of them by inches only. 
The flight kept up all day, and never in Illinois 
or Indiana, nor yet in Texas or Missouri, not 
even in California did I see such mallard shoot¬ 
ing. Seventy-six in two hours and a half; bet¬ 
ter than one every two minutes. How many 
would that be in a full day? Plenty, wouldn’t it? 
Ed came with the ammunition in time to load 
my shells, all metal ones, before supper. Lucky, 
too, because in some way, before the meal was 
finished, conversation turned to politics. It was 
during a Presidential campaign, and the house 
was divided against itself—'the man a democrat 
and the woman a republican. The writer was 
dragged into it and sided with the man. Then 
the woman insisted that instead of going several 
miles to vote, her husband should stay at home 
and husk corn. One word led to another, she 
getting more and more peeved not only at him 
but at everybody, and finally she turned on me: 
“Funny, isn’t it?” she said. “Laughing, are 
you? Well, let me tell you something: One 
fool democrat in this house is enough, and you 
won’t sleep here to-night!” 
Argument, persuasion, apology, even money 
had no more effect on her than mist on a mal¬ 
lard’s back. Ed, who had hardly said a word, 
was a sufferer also. We both had to go. 
She did relent, however, enough to say: “Well, 
I won’t be too hard. I don’t suppose you know 
any better; there’s a bed in the grainery; you 
and the boy can sleep there, and seeing as I have 
taken your money, you can eat at the house.” 
There was no grain in the grainery; nothing 
but rats, a ramshackle bed with little covering, 
and a window destitute of glass. Fortunately, 
Ed had a heavy fur garment which he spread 
over the bed, and on top of this we put our 
rubber coats. 
There was a change of weather during the 
night and we woke at daybreak to find every¬ 
thing white with snow. It had blown through 
the glassless window until it was an inch deep 
on the bedding, twice that on the floor, with a 
drift several feet high in one corner. The few 
clothes we had removed before going to bed were 
snowed under, our rubber boots white inside and 
out, giving an attack of shivers when put on, and 
FOREST AND STREAM 
one of the writer’s ears was frost-bitten. The 
body-blow, however, came later when we found 
the lake frozen and not a duck in sight. 
To help things, the lady at breakfast, remem¬ 
bering our argument of the night before, re¬ 
marked, “You think it was cold last night, do 
you? Well, the frost you democrats will get 
next Tuesday will make you think last night was 
like midsummer”—and she was right. 
It cleared off toward noon and turned warm, 
melting the snow and ice, which put life into the 
ducks and started a few moving, so we decided 
to stay. 
Next day, after another night in the grainery—■ 
which even the rats had left—we commenced a 
six days’ shoot. Not many birds remained, and 
it took hard work, backed by the science of 
knowing how, acquired in long years of practice, 
to kill about three hundred, only half of which 
were mallard. Then came a freeze that was a 
freeze, which ended for that year shooting on 
Lake Ozatanka. 
Such was the writer’s introduction to the 
feathered people who made this Southern Min¬ 
nesota lake their home. Their acquaintance was 
renewed on several later occasions and hoping to 
see them once again, when southern canvas-back 
demanded attention and drew the writer away, 
boat and decoys were left with farmer Nelson, 
who had bought out the quarreling couple. 
Late in October, 1894, came a telegram from 
Nelson, saying: “More ducks here than ever be¬ 
fore. Can't all get into the lake at once. Come.” 
“More” certainly meant a lot, even if the last 
part of the message was open to doubt, but a 
trip to New Madrid had been planned. The big- 
gun was in the doctor's shop being rebrowned and 
rebored, so it took a week to get started and but 
for that “more” the trip would have been made 
in an opposite direction from Minnesota. 
It was a cold November night when the writer 
reached a farm which Ed owned and worked. He 
stopped there, not only for a short visit, but to 
engage the boy’s services for the trip. 
“Want to go duck shooting out to the lake?” 
“Pshaw! it’s frozen solid by this time,” the 
young man answered. “Besides,” he continued, 
“nobody can kill many ducks there; five or six in 
a day is the most anyone has got this fall.” 
“Have there been plenty there?” I asked. 
“Oh, yes, quite some,” he replied. “But I’ve 
no faith in your killing enough to amount to 
anything this late in the season, even if the lake 
should open up.” 
“Much corn left unhusked in the fields?’ was 
my next question. 
“Lots,” he answered. 
“Then,” I said, “there are ducks. They won't 
leave as long as they can get plenty of corn to 
eat and enough water to drink and wet their feet 
in occasionally.” 
After more talk, arrangements were made to 
start for the lake very early in the morning. But 
Ed didn’t enthuse over the prospect, and per¬ 
suaded his father to go in his place. 
There was barely light enough to see an ice- 
covered lake when the deacon stopped his horses 
at its frozen shore. Skiff and decoys were where 
Nelson had been written to leave them, but the 
ice, not sufficiently strong to walk on, was much 
to stiff for breaking with a light boat. It would 
cut through its thin sides before it had gone a 
hundred yards. Moreover, no ducks were to be 
seen. .One disreputable, bob-tail crow and two 
forlorn blackbirds were the only living things in 
sight and they were so nearly frozen they seemed 
only half alive. 
“My, my!” the deacon said. “Too bad you 
came. What could that man have been thinking 
of to send for you? Jump in and we’ll go to the 
house and tell him to take care of the boat and 
then see if we can kill a few chickens; you must 
have some sport after coming so far.” 
“Wait a minute,” the writer answered, slipping 
two shells into his gun. “I am going to see ii 
any ducks are left.” 
Two shots were fired in quick succession over 
the ice, and there was an instant response in the 
shape of a storm of beating wings, as the whole 
center of the lake seemed to rise in one dark, 
circling, quacking body. Ducks were there by 
thousands, and the shots didn’t frighten them 
away, either. They rose above the cane just 
enough to show themselves, and then settled back 
in the air-hole they had kept open all through 
the freeze by their swimming and splashing. 
Eleven o’clock came before the ice softened 
enough to risk breaking a path with the boat, 
and it was noon when open water was reached. 
Then more trouble was found. There wasn’t 
cover enough around the water to hide a flea, 
what cane remained being not only thin and scat¬ 
tering, but nearly everywhere beaten flat. How¬ 
ever, the ducks were not shy nor looking for dan¬ 
ger as when constantly bothered, and they kept 
flying around the big air-hole, many coming 
within easy range and going away unharmed and 
unshot at, for it was not policy to shoot until 
everything was ready. The decoys were set forty 
yards to windward; the boat, with its bows 
pointed toward them, was run into a little bunch 
of cane which was thicker than the average, and 
was tied fast to the push paddle on one side and 
an oar on the other, both sunk deep in the mud; 
this to make it steady and easy to shift position 
in; then the writer lay on his back, feet to the 
decoys, head resting on his folded coat, and 
sounded the signal on his duck caller for firing 
to begin. 
It was an awkward position to shoot from, this 
lying down and rising to a sitting position for 
every shot, and had the decoys been set to lee¬ 
ward, where at almost a single jump the birds 
could get out of range, only a few would have 
been killed; but with singles, pairs and bunches 
getting wind-bound where the more they climbed 
the closer they got, fair work was done, and 
when slivers of new ice began to form as the 
sun got low, oar and paddle were taken aboard 
and seventy-nine dead mallards picked up. 
During the night more ice formed, which made 
breaking a path harder, and next day—Saturday 
-—noon came before a start was attempted. The 
shooting, too, became more difficult. The mal¬ 
lards craned their necks and looked down before 
answering the caller, noticed the boat more 
quickly, and as there was less wind to hold them, 
got away with greater speed. The result was, 
with about a hundred and fifteen shells, only 
fifty-nine ducks were killed. There was no long, 
cold ride that night to Ed’s place, as arrange¬ 
ments had been made to stay at the farmhouse. 
It turned warm Sunday and all the ice melted, 
but no shooting was done, for the writer made it 
a rule to rest up and clean up on the first day 
of the week. He considered it no harm, how¬ 
ever, to watch the ducks from a second-story 
(Continued on page 394.) 
