Mallard Shooting in Snow Squalls 
Last Autumn Days Before the Great Lake Marshes 
are Ice-Locked 
By PAULINA BRANDRETH 
W ITH the going down of the sun a grim 
cold settled on the marshes. Inhospit¬ 
able shadows groped their way along 
the river, stretched themselves across the scrubby 
level of the island and drowned the light from 
the horizon. In the pond holes and among the 
withered lotus beds the water froze rapidly in 
strips of pale silver; and save for a gulf of 
purple cloud, the west was dull and colorless. 
At intervals a chill wind piped and rattled amid 
the wild rice and blowguns. 
From the south end of the island I watched 
the night advance across the wide spaces of 
marshland, while also keeping vigil for a possi¬ 
ble unwary teal or mallard passing overhead 
on the evening flight. Presently I grew uncom¬ 
fortably aware of the falling temperature, for 
the wind that blew was keen and stinging. First 
I stood on one foot, then on the other. I laid 
■down my gun and slapped my arms vigorously. 
The moon rolled up from the east, gaunt and 
unfriendly; the marshes blurred, but no voyag¬ 
ing duck came to console the discomforts of the 
moment. At length, chilled to the marrow, T 
forsook the chase and made haste up the 
island. 
In the dusk I perceived the outline of the 
Maison de la Chasse with its chimneys smok¬ 
ing comfortably and a savory heat issuing from 
the open door; and just outside the duck shed 
came on Pete and old Joe, holding a low voiced 
consultation as to the weather prospects for 
the morrow. They were both in an unusually 
serene frame of mind, having recently absorbed 
five fingers of spirit regenerator doled out by 
the Veteran from a well-deep bottle in the din¬ 
ing room. This small but satisfying beverage, 
after a hard day’s punting in the marsh, was 
received by each with eminent satisfaction, in¬ 
creasing later to a bland volubility. 
“Well, Joe, I guess we fix dem ter-morrow,” 
Peter remarked as I drew within hearing. Joe, 
hale and muscular at seventy and ever-faithful 
to his mother tongue, made some reply in 
patois which appeared to leave the other content. 
“I know where to get ’em, too!” he went on, 
waxing confident. “By golly, Joe, I seen dem 
flyin’ in as thick as bees, ole green-heads an’ 
niggers!” 
As these visions rose in Peter’s mind, he 
stalked back in the sitting room. 
“Well sir, we mus’ get an early start?” said 
he interrogating the Veteran and filling the 
doorway with his broad plethoric figure. 
“Oh, come down about the usual time, Pete. 
That’s all for to-night.” 
“I’ll be down afore daylight, you bet!” Pete’s 
e3"es glistened brightly. 
The Veteran looked at him over the top of 
his book. “Maybe you won’t be able to get 
down at all if the river freezes.” 
“Ough! You don’t suppose dat ole river is 
goin’ ter keep us up town? No sir! We’ll 
come anyway. Well, you don’t want me an’ 
Joe no more?” 
The Veteran regarded him patiently. “That’s 
all for to-night, Pete. You can go home.” The 
latter, however, continued to hold his ground. 
“Yes sir, we mus’ get an early start. I know 
just where dem bird-” 
“Go home!” roared the Veteran. 
“Yes sir. I’m goin’; good-night.” 
“Good-night, Peter.” 
“Well, good-night, ev’rybody.” 
This time he moved out. A few minutes 
later, as he passed under the window, I heard 
him vociferating to Joe in loud, amicable tones; 
and no doubt during the hour that it took them 
to row up the river his tongue continued to wag 
bravely to the stars. 
Before daylight the next morning I was 
roused by his elephantine tread going about the 
house as he built fires and hastened the com¬ 
mencement of day. Evidently wind and weather 
were favorable to his prophesies of the night 
previous, for he appeared in robust spirits. 
His mood, however, found some contrast in 
Al, le grand cuisinier of the establishment, who 
hovered in the kitchen over an incomparable 
omelette and stacks of golden pancakes. 
“By gee! that Peter got me out before it 
was light!” he growled plaintively as the 
Veteran and I were sitting down to breakfast. 
“I never heard such a deuce of a noise, 
bangin’ on my window and slammin’ around 
the house when it was pitch dark!” 
In the midst of these denunciations the of¬ 
fender stumped through the room, his arms 
laden with cartridge boxes. 
“You bet we need plenty of shell,” he said 
with a glowing smile. Then his eye fell on Joe 
and grew ominous. 
“What! you ain’t got dem decoy yet? Now, 
look here, Joe, you’d better go right off as fast 
as you can an’ fetch dose bird.” 
A chief joy in Pete’s existence was the pleas¬ 
ure he obtained from ordering people about, 
or, to put it more literally, from bossing every 
man, woman or child who came within reach. 
Although Joe was greatly his senior, not only 
in years, but in large experience on the marsh, 
his demagogic brother nevertheless unfailingly 
endeavored to rule him with a rod of iron. He 
usually delivered the order in a peremptory tone 
of command tinged with reproof, but as a rule 
and much to his disgust, Joe would receive it 
mildly and as mildly go his own way. 
“How many you think we need?” he asked. 
“Oh, bring a dozen, we want plenty of 
quackers; an’ hurry up, Joe, hurry up,” returned 
Pete, grieved at the delay. 
In ten minutes the old punter came back 
trundling a crate-load of live mallard decoys, 
and in ten more we were launched in our duck 
boats on the river and making for the selected 
shooting grounds. The morning was cold and 
the sky rumpled and sour. A belt of ice lay 
along the river margins, and every muskrat 
house wore a snowy cap and glistening girdle. 
Frequently from overhead floated the sweet 
melancholy piping of plovers, or the rapid 
whistling of wings as some bulky mallard 
sprang from a secluded covert among the blow- 
guns. Northward, curtains of filmy gray clouds 
told of coming snow squalls. 
As we jogged down the river Pete’s tongue 
was loosened, and he conversed freely. Find¬ 
ing Joe stoical and the Veteran too far ahead 
to join in a discussion, he turned to me. A 
boat rowed by a weather-browned young 
Frenchman slid by, going up river, and his 
glance followed ft with an expression of dis¬ 
approval. 
“You see dat feller?” he said, “One of them 
new gamekeeper. By golly, dat’s a mean job! 
Dere’s ole man Boyce—both eyes shot out by 
one of dese poachers! Jus’ as bline as a bat; 
yes sir, jus’ as bline as a bat, can’t see nothin’ 
at all; but you bet he can pick a duck as good 
as anybody!” Here he looked at me to see if 
I had accepted the profound quality of the state¬ 
ment before he continued. “Dat feller dat shot 
him got drowned right ofif der pier down here 
about a year aterwards. By golly, we was 
glad!” Thus he talked on, varying his subjects 
and wandering from a eulogy on muskrat stew 
to the cultivation of raspberries and swan 
shooting. 
At length, after an inconsiderable row, we 
turned from the river into an adjoining creek 
which wound with a swift current for several 
hundred yards ere losing itself amid the wild 
rice floor of the marsh. The water in there 
was very shallow and what with skim ice and 
