652 
FOREST AND STREAM 
the worst luck. Good salmon fishing in the Grand 
Codroy begins about June io and may last through 
July or even later. The first run of grilse is made 
late in June. Large trout throng the river in 
July. They come up from the Gulf and are 
known locally as sea trout. Very likely they are 
brook trout which have developed a liking for 
salt water and ascend the river only to perpetu¬ 
ate their kind. We have nowhere enjoyed better 
trout and grilse fishing than in Harry’s Brook, 
Newfoundland, late in June, 1899. There seemed 
to be no limit to a possible catch of trout run¬ 
ning from 1 to 2% pounds, and of grilse from 
3 to 6 pounds in weight. 
Not more than two miles south of the Grand 
Codroy, at its nearest point, flows the Little Cod¬ 
roy, a river small enough to be fished without a 
boat. Notwithstanding their proximity the fish¬ 
ing in the Little Codroy is considerably later 
than in the larger river. A recent letter states 
that salmon and sea trout may be taken there 
as late as September. There are said to be com¬ 
fortable accommodations for Little Codroy an¬ 
glers at the railroad station, Tompkins. On the 
Grand Codroy we found satisfactory quarters 
near Doyle’s Station. The farmhouse was a 
mile from the railroad, in the open and well 
above the river level. In June there were no 
black flies or mosquitoes. 
Our route to Newfoundland was by rail. 
Leaving Boston at 8:30 A. M., June 16 and 
passing through Maine, New Brunswick, Nova 
Scotia and Cape Breton we came to North 
Sydney on the afternoon of the 17th, and 
crossed Cabot Strait to Port-aux-Basques dur¬ 
ing the night. The rail run in Newfoundland 
the next morning was not more than an hour 
in length. Anglers intending to fish streams 
on the east coast could follow this route or 
go by water to St. John’s and thence by rail to 
destination. 
The Wood Hollow Days 
IV.—A Duck Shooting Story That Tells How 
That coming of day was to introduce to us 
our first day with the ducks and if anticipation 
ever has been allowed to be decorated with the 
Carnegie medal, allow me to present to you the 
especial brand that rose, wraith-like, out of that 
camp in the midst of a certain Wood Hollow. 
Duck hunting is more than sport. It is some¬ 
thing that lies beside every hunters pathway, 
and leaps upon him when he is least expecting 
it, delivering with a resounding thud a blow 
mpon his consciousness, so that he loses his 
memory, and can think of nothing save duck 
‘blinds; can hear nothing but the whistling of 
wings, and the swaying of rushes, and the rever¬ 
berating detonations of mingled black powder 
and smokeless. To be afflicted with the duck 
fever is not, however, a disaster; it is an in¬ 
stitution. It is something on the meandering 
byway to Arcady, and comes, heaven be praised, 
only once a year; that part of the year being 
the grand old autumnal season. I have spoken 
of the fact that the morrow was to be our day 
triumphant. All that day we had listened to 
the superior dictates of brother Daniel. What 
Daniel said went. Daniel knew more than 
eight books about hunting and one volume of 
unpolluted information, and woodsmanship in 
quantities galore. Therefore, Daniel, knowing 
this led us into the trap—duck shooting. 
Out from Wood Hollow there lies a great 
swamp. Off to one end there is another swamp, 
and there is an excellent pass there where any¬ 
one wishing for ducks in the hallowed hours of 
Night embracing Day, will profitably insert him¬ 
self there in eminent concealment, and with his 
thunder-stick on the qui vive. Oh, perhaps he 
will get good duck shooting—Oh, perhaps! You 
see it is this way. They swing all the way down 
the big swamp, and now, say, perhaps, some¬ 
where along the line hunters are concealed. On 
will come that array, thinking perhaps to dive 
for water. But they are foiled; the men in the 
boat will rise and there will follow thunder 
galore. Hence, by all mathematical deductions 
and the science of the fourth dimension, they, 
if there be survivors, will not alight as they 
thought; but suddenly, reverting to the fact that 
they know of another swamp further down will 
wing right on, away from that destructive, alarm¬ 
ing pot-hole. Then—ah, here lies the grit. They 
By Robert Page Lincoln. 
will make the pass. Follows more thunder, and 
startled quacking—and the nimrod smilingly 
stooping over to pick up his spoil. Neat, you 
see—ah, brother, there is the rub! 
I will not save overly much in recommendation 
of the boat that Daniel had suggested for our 
use on the morrow. It was a cross between a 
punt and a dory, but, for all that, it was a 
staunch little craft, and was easier to push around 
than I had expected, looking it over for the 
first time. In this boat Daniel, when muskrat 
season opened up full blast, would push himself 
around, setting his traps on the houses and on 
the resting places. Now, we had a purpose in 
view for it. We meant to get ducks. 
In the establishment of our blinds we used 
the greatest of caution and what of superior 
skill experience has taught. The selection of 
this blind I left to Daniel, for by a knowledge 
derived from intimate acquaintanceship with 
every nook and cranny of the marshes, and 
knowing where the ducks naturally flew, it was 
an inestimable help to get located right. 
And that night Pleasure, in its innumerable 
manifestations held the limelight at Wood Hol¬ 
low cabin; Fred for the tenth time peered in¬ 
quisitively through his gun to see that it was 
clean and sparkling, as it never had sparkled 
before and since he was to hold the pass against 
all comers, it behooved him to enlarge upon the 
proportions of his success in language replete 
with sinister adjectives. This much to Daniel’s 
unbounded happiness. The clock was wound that 
night to register one hour before sunrise the 
following morning—ample time for our estab¬ 
lishment in the blind and at the pass. It seemed 
that we had barely tucked the quilts around our 
manly chins, when the alarm stung the still¬ 
ness of the cabin into vibrant life. We were 
astir by the light of the lamp and welcomed 
heartily enough the warmth of the fire and the 
coffee that followed. 
Sweaters and hunting coats were donned and 
in the dull, silent dark of the morning we set 
out for our destination. My old jimmy pipe 
threw a wre'ath of smoke over my shoulder, and 
Fred, throwing his collar higher, bit off a chunk 
of Piper Heidsieck that exceeded any past attempt. 
“Now, if I don’t fix all the ducks that come 
my way, then it is because I have not eaten 
enough for breakfast,” commented Fred, with 
averted face. 
“There comes that eating question up again,” 
I said, remembering the Fred who had that morn¬ 
ing gnawed away into the interior of my pet 
bread-loaf. “Fred, will you ever cease to be 
hungry?” 
“Not as long as partridge can be clay baked, 
stewed, fried, boiled and cooked,” said Fred. 
“And now, speaking of eating—” 
“Leave it unsaid,” I implored, remembering 
the powerful fecundity of his imagination. “It 
will eventually reach raisin and pumpkin pie, 
and there I draw the line. Such trifling eatables 
should not be classed as food. They are bad 
for the indigestion. And Fred—better be care¬ 
ful with your tobacco, there. As I recall, it was 
not so many years ago—on a certain occasion 
—game appearing on the horizon of your vision 
you forgot the one and only place for a chew, 
and in the excitement of the moment, you swal¬ 
lowed it—thus transferring it to the apex of 
your anatomy.” 
Fred blushed beet red when I related to Dan¬ 
iel the aftermath of this stunt; it was a brilliant 
crimson, dotted with vermillion, so scarlet Was it- 
A steady walk through wet grass and brush. 
It was yet dim and dark when Fred made the 
pass, and at the place officially selected by Dan¬ 
iel, took his stand. 'We left him followed by 
admonitions to shoo all the winged host his way. 
We lost no time in getting to our craft for 
the trip to the blind was everything but that 
emulated by a mile a minute hydroplane—what 
with a medium of strenuous paddling and punt- 
pusk pushing through tangled wastes. The 
morning was cold and still—with, however, a 
keen, whispering wind complaining in the rushes. 
Night yet lay in boundless domain upon the 
face of the earth, but the east showed signs of 
the subtle sunrise to be. Daniel proved to be 
the next thing to a wizard, for just when I 
thought he had taken me to Egypt, lo, and be¬ 
hold, we were at our destination. The folds of 
shadow soon began to lift; and we lay there 
in wait for the rosy coming of Pheobus in the 
far east. And presently, ere I was aware of it, 
the keen eye of my partner had stopped the 
first ones of the flight up from the ponds, after 
their night of rest to ease their cramped wings. 
