FOREST AND STREAM 
495 
every grain had been crushed to atoms. The 
powder was most completely disintegrated. 
“That—that your powder?” I gasped. “Why 
that isn’t powder; it’s coal dust. It wouldn t 
burn if you put it on a red hot stove. 
“Yes, it will. I say it will,” he shouted. “I’ll 
prove it.” Then he dropped some on the board 
walk and touched it with a burning match, after 
removing the rest to a place of safety. 
“There, I told you so! I told you it would 
go off!” 'he cried, when there came a little puff, 
followed by a flash and a cloud of smoke. Then, 
“Now you’ve seen my powder, show me your 
shot. Come, show it. Where is it?” 
“Here,” I answered, handing him some that 
had just been polished. 
“Those things shot?” he asked. “Those shot? 
Why—why—they’re bullets. That’s what they 
are.” 
“Best there is,” I said. “And any way, they’re 
better than that coal dust stuff you call powder.” 
“Oh‘well,” Billy answered. “What’s the use 
of fussing? Let’s divide as we agreed.” 
When this was done, he said: “Want to go 
duck shooting tomorrow? I know a fine pond 
Quail Aplenty. 
down by the swamp where no one has hunted 
this year.’ 1 ’ 
Did I want to go? Does a shell drake like 
young bull 'heads? It would be playing a sure 
winner to bet I wanted to go. 
Long before noon Saturday, astride a borrowed 
horse, with a two-bushel sack for a game bag, 
I was at the cross roads waiting for Billy, an 
hour ahead of time. 
On arrival, he, by reason of better knowledge 
of the swamp, assumed direction of the hunt. 
His first words were: “No hurry. Ducks 
won’t come to the pond beforje sunset.” 
To kill time he suggested a quail hunt and 
we found two coveys of most unreasonable birds. 
Both lots flew up without warning and almost in 
our very faces, with such a whir-r-r and so much 
noise that each forgot he had a gun and neither 
thought of shooting. 
“If they’d only made some of that racket be¬ 
fore jumping, what sport we would have had,” 
said Billy. 
Squirrels were next looked for. They stir 
but little in the middle of the day and must 
have been home with their families for none 
showed. 
Then we decided the turkeys should be made 
to suffer and after a gallop of half an hour 
reached a likely spot. Skilled turkey hunters, we 
had been told, always placed themselves in front 
of a tree, instead of behind, where, by constant¬ 
ly poking their heads around trying to see what 
was happening, they would draw the birds’ at¬ 
tention to their movements. The writer will add, 
in the middle west he has seen ruff grouse adopt 
the same tactics, one often skulking in front of 
tree or stump until a shooter had passed, then 
whirring away to safety with a considerable sec¬ 
tion of the forest between it and danger. 
In spite of following the correct method, our 
turkey hunt panned out badly. Billy had a caller 
made of a wing bone, once the property of some 
unfortunate bird that through the medium of a 
log trap had found its way to a negro’s cabin. 
It was an instrument he was not skilled in use 
of and his imitation of a turkey calling to her 
mate, sounded more like the yap of a puppy dog, 
than note of any bird or beast. One answering 
bird gobbled a reply, but soon noticed things 
were not as they should be and made himself 
scarce. 
Wild pigeons were plentiful, albeit wise birds 
that seemed to know how far a gun was dan¬ 
gerous and flitted from tree to tree just out of 
range. Half the afternoon was gone and not a 
shot fired, when an aggravating old cock of the 
woods—a pigeon-sized woodpecker with a long 
neck and a very red head—laughed and kept 
laughing at our greenness until Billy started after 
his scalp, saying he would get him if it took 
all the ammunition in his pockets, but before he 
could take aim, the “Emmick,” as we termed him, 
from a fancied resemblance to a stretched necked, 
fireheaded overseer of a nearby plantation, with 
a shrill scream sailed to a dead pine further in 
the swamp, and continued his crazy laughter as 
long as we were in hearing. 
The duck pond was round, about a hundred 
yards through, weedy, muddy and shallow. Tall 
trees, some alive, some dead, surrounded it, and 
decaying logs, the remains of mighty giants of 
the past, often extended into the water many 
feet beyond the shore line. At night mallards 
from neighboring cornfields came to it, drank, 
splashed and sported to their hearts’ content. 
This late November afternoon was chilly and 
as night began to draw her sable mantle over all 
the land, thin slivers of ice appeared where no 
breeze ruffled the pond’s smooth surface. No¬ 
ticing them, Billy suddenly realized an unpleas¬ 
ant job was ahead for one of us and asked: 
“Say, who’s going to wade after the ducks we 
kill ?” 
“No use worrying about that, we won’t kill 
any,” came my encouraging reply. 
“But if we do, will you go in for them?” he 
persisted. 
“Well—I—suppose so,” was my hesitating re¬ 
ply. “That is,” I qualified, “if I kill any I will, 
and if I don’t, I won’t.” 
This seemed a safe proposition, in view of the 
kind of ammunition we had, coupled with the 
fact that I had never shot a duck in my life; 
but it satisfied my companion who chuckled, 
“Good for you,” and I knew by the sound of his 
laugh, he would give me the best of it, at least 
until one duck was killed. 
We each found a log, sat down as close to 
the water as we could and waited. 
“Why don’t they come,” I kept asking impa¬ 
tiently, as it got darker and darker. “Where 
are your mallards?” 
Presently the ducks answered the question 
themselves. A flock passed high in the air and 
kept on for some resort deeper in the swamp 
and further from the danger zone. Right after 
them came three more, with wings set, asking 
in short, low quacks, “Hullo, ducks, any of you 
fellows down there?” 
When no response was given, they lit far back 
in the weeds, several gunshots away. Soon the 
air was full of feathered people, and one, his 
glossy green head shining in the dim light, plump¬ 
ed down directly in front of me not twenty 
yards distant. 
Resting my gun on the projecting arm of an 
old root, after careful aim, I shot. Smoke blot¬ 
ted everything from sight until a breath of wind 
carried it away, then I saw my bird. He was on 
his back, his feet beating a quick tattoo on empty 
air. Dead! Killed with homemade shot and 
bomb shell powder! In the joy of knowing that 
both would answer, the icy bath to come, was 
all but forgotten. 
Almost before my gun was reloaded, a flock 
lit near Billy, out of which he killed two and 
crippled one. The wounded bird, although it 
swam very close, I barely managed to get with 
my second barrel, after a clean miss with the 
first. 
We shot until it became too dark to see the 
sights on our guns, each missing several chances. 
At last Billy said, “Time to quit. Come, pull 
off your clothes and get those ducks. It is nearly 
dark now.” 
I drew a long breath and hesitated. 
“Come on,” he screamed. “Ain’t going to back 
out now, are you?” 
“How about that cripple I shot over. Whose 
is he?” I asked. 
“Oh, take him, take him,” he answered peevish¬ 
ly,” only don’t stand arguing all night. Hurry, 
undress.” 
I did, and retrieved the ducks; then, mud- 
splashed to above my waist, returned to the pond 
and took a sponge bath, only it was with a hand¬ 
ful of long gray moss instead of a sponge; which 
done, and feeling as if icicles were hanging all 
over me, I hastened to dress by a blazing fire 
that Billy—thoughtful as much of his own com¬ 
fort as of mine—had started. 
When he came with the horses, he said, “Your 
shot is better than it looks.” 
“Same about your powder,” was my reply. 
“Tell you what,” he continued. “You keep 
rolling shot and I’ll get powder from another 
shell; then we’ll divide again.” 
This was done and the supply more than lasted 
the winter through. 
Before the seasons rolled around again, each 
had shooting and to spare without bothering the 
winged people of Pedee Swamp. But that one 
winter lives in memory and always will, as a 
pleasing offset to the bitter months which fol¬ 
lowed. Months of rout and ruin, of privation 
within prison walls; all ending in the sorrow of 
surrender. 
