Forest and Stream 
Terms, $3 a Year, 10 Cts. a Copy, 
Six Months, $1.50. 
NEW YORK, SATURDAY, DECEMBER 2, 1911. 
1 
VOL. LXXVII—No. 23. 
1 No. 127 Franklin St., New York. 
Ducking Under Difficulties 
ETTER not go down to-morrow,” advised 
li John, as he met me in the darkness of 
the rain-swept street. “The creek’s so 
rough that it isn’t safe for anything short of 
lifeboat, and as for water—say, the meadows 
are flooded clear across, and big brown rollers 
are breaking right over the point below the 
bridge. I was going out myself this afternoon, 
but I got cold feet when I looked first at the 
boat and then at those waves. Oh sure, the 
ducks are in, all right; why wouldn’t they be, 
with this wind fairly 
lifting ’em out of the 
open water and driv¬ 
ing ’em inland for 
shelter?” 
The ducks were in ! 
Well, that was what 
we’d been waiting for 
ever since the season 
opened, nearly a 
month before. I was 
very anxious to get 
at least one day’s 
shooting before the 
advent of winter, but 
under the present 
conditions of wind 
and flood, with their 
resultant risks, would 
the game be worth 
the candle? I was 
still considering the 
matter when I reach¬ 
ed home, undecided 
whether to follow the 
dictates of Desire or 
hearken to the advice 
of Caution. But Desire won out eventually, as 
she frequently does in such cases, so gun, shells 
and shooting clothes were overhauled and 
placed in a convenient corner and by nine 
o’clock I was asleep. 
It was into the utter blackness of three A. m. 
that I awoke in response to the alarm-clock’s 
jangle, and listened to the sounds of the storm. 
The rain had almost ceased, but the wind—ye 
gods, how it did blow! For one sleepy moment 
I was tempted to turn over again and let duck 
shooting take care of itself; then came a vision 
of a bunch of blacks swinging around to the 
decoys, and I got up. 
A hot breakfast was soon stowed away where 
it would do the most good, and then a some¬ 
what dilapidated bicycle that had served for 
many similar trips in former seasons was 
By ROBERT S. LEMMON 
brought up from the cellar. “Lucky this wheel’s 
old,” I thought, “ ’cause she’ll certainly get 
wet to-day. However, this is the sort of work 
I keep her for, so what’s the odds?” 
It was three miles or so to the bout house, 
yet the ride was not so very disagreeable, for 
most of it was before the wind and consequently 
easy. The road led along a high ridge until 
the meadows were reached, then turned sharply 
down the hill and went—into several inches of 
muddy water, the result of the heavy rainfall 
of the past two days. Fortunately, a straggling 
line of telegraph poles bordered the submerged 
macadam and served as a guide, so, by the ex¬ 
ercise of a little care, I had no trouble in wad¬ 
ing along the road as far as the path which 
turned off to the little shanty where the boat 
was kept. 
That path was a problem. It was only a 
couple of feet wide at the best, and in an ordi¬ 
narily high tide was barely above the water. 
Where it left the road it was built up above a 
deep ditch some twenty feet in width, but now 
in the confusion of darkness and hissing waves, 
ditch and path seemed to be one. I knew that 
once the right place were found the boat could 
be reached without getting into the water over 
a couple of feet in depth, so, accordingly, I be¬ 
gan a prodding search with a long piece of 
driftwood. Thus in a few minutes the path was 
located, its devious windings successfully ne¬ 
gotiated, and I stood on the rude wooden plat¬ 
form at the end of the house. 
Within, everything was afloat. Decoys, 
paddles and bits of loose board drifted serenely 
about, while the boat had shoved its nose into 
the lower compartment of one of the lockers. 
With the aid of a few matches I found and 
lighted the lantern which hung on a nail by the 
door; then bailed out the skiff, stacked a few 
decoys in the bow, 
and paddled out 
through the open 
doorway into the 
storm. 
Under ordinary 
conditions the way 
to the island in the 
main stream where 
the blind was located 
is down a narrow 
creek, perhaps a 
quarter of a mile in 
length, winding 
through wide mead¬ 
ows seldom covered 
by high tide. But now, 
what with the flood 
from up the val ey 
and the abnormal 
tide making up from 
below, there was no 
distinguishing creek 
from meadows. The 
whole extent of the 
marshes, three-quar¬ 
ters of a mile in 
breadth and six times that in length, was under 
two feet or more of water, and the gale had 
stirred up an ugly sea that was hardly affected 
by the opposition of the half-submerged patches 
of cattails. The air seemed filled with a curious 
hissing sound as wind and wave contended 
with the obstructing rushes, whose pliant stems 
always yielded, but ever returned again to the 
struggle. Add to all this the darkness, the small 
size and the extreme crankiness of the skiff 
even in quiet water and you have an experience 
not easily forgotten. 
It was ticklish work negotiating that quarter 
of a mile to the partial shelter of the island, for 
most of the way the boat was fairly in the 
trough of the sea. Once in the lee of the dense 
growth of cattails near the blind, however, 
things were quieter and I had a chance to 
i 
A PEEP AT THE CREEK FROM THE BLIND. 
