770 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[May is, 1909. 
the glow of a lamp. But our spirits fell, for we 
knew that our favorite shooting grounds were 
fast being ice-locked, and that it would only 
be a matter of a short time before mallards, 
canvasbacks and redheads took their way 
southward. 
Next day the marsh was frozen as tight as a 
drum, two or three inches of snow covered the 
island, and a landscape of steel-blue and spark¬ 
ling white rolled away to the horizon. Thus 
within twenty-four hours winter had come 
tumbling down, chased the last leaves from the 
trees and bled the sun of its kindly autumn heat. 
We had long been absent from the breakfast 
table when Pete and Joe finally put in an ap¬ 
pearance. Both were clad in accordance with 
the weather’s temper, but while Joe’s coat and 
ear tabs were neatly fastened, his brother’s, as 
usual, were flying gallantly in the breeze. 
“I bring my little dog,” announced Joe 
graciously, “No shoot duck, den we kill rabbit!” 
Around the corner of the house as he spoke 
ambled a brace of French mongrels, the one 
resembling a black calf, the other short-legged 
and diminutive with a tail like a baseball- bat. 
“Dat’s mine,” said Joe, indicating the smaller; 
“by golly, he can hunt!” 
“Is he a good retriever?” inquired the Vet¬ 
eran, somewhat grimly. 
“Oh! sure,” replied both men in chorus, 
Pete for once heartily seconding Joe. 
“All right, bring him along and we’ll go down 
to the other end of the island. There’s a pair 
of ducks that were shot yesterday that fell on 
the ice off the point. He’s just the one to get 
them.” And off started the Veteran, followed 
by a convoy of men and dogs. On the way Joe 
cast a glance of something like apprehension 
toward the noble canine trotting proudly ahead. 
Then he looked to Pete for assurance. 
“I know he bring dem duck,” said he. 
“By golly, he will,” returned Pete with a fine 
show of confidence. 
On reaching the appointed place an air of 
pride exhaled from Joe’s manner. 
“There they are,” said the Veteran, pointing 
to the birds which lay on the ice some distance 
from shore; “now let’s see what your mongrel 
can do?” 
Joe turned around and whistled violently. 
After waiting about ten or fifteen minutes the 
dog hove in sight. 
“Come here,” he cried, “go on out der, fetch 
dem bird.” 
Reluctantly the little dog edged down to the 
shore, put one foot on the ice and stopped. 
“Fetch dem!” cried Joe again. 
He went on, sidling gingerly over the slippery 
surface until he came to where the first duck 
lay partly buried under the snow. Then he sat 
down and commenced to devour it. 
“Hey,” yelled his master; “quit dat; fetch 
dem bird; fetch dem here!” 
For a minute or two the dog paused and 
looked toward shore. Joe shook his fist at him, 
and he got up, trotted over to the other bird 
and proceeded to roll on it several times. 
“Come here, you,” shouted Joe, running down 
to the shore and seizing a cudgel, “by golly, I 
break your neck!” 
Wisely, however, the little mongrel held his 
position, patiently waiting until the wrath of his 
master had cooled before he ventured to draw 
near. After much noise and abuse he was sent 
out once again, and this time fulfilled his mis¬ 
sion like a good fellow. To Joe’s eyes, as he 
dragged the ducks over the ice and brought 
them within reach of shore, he appeared, no 
doubt, the king of all virtues; and the breach 
between the two was thus affectionately healed 
over. 
The ensuing rabbit hunt proved to be but a 
cold affair. I think the dogs started one bunny 
which went by A 1 at the rate of sixty miles an 
hour and left him no time for a shot. During 
the remainder of the hunt we did not once lay 
eyes on our four-legged Nimrods, and from 
distant noises, judged they were busily oc¬ 
cupied digging out a woodchuck, so we returned 
to toast ourselves by the fire and discuss plans 
for departing East. 
“I jus’ want ter show yer what bird you got 
ter take home,” said Pete, opening the door of 
the duck shed as we passed by. “Did you ever 
saw such a nicer lot? Regular ole blocks!” 
The Veteran and I put our heads in and 
looked around. The three walls were lined with 
solid rows of mallards, black ducks, canvas- 
backs and redheads, all prime birds, ready to 
be packed and shipped the day of our departure. 
And we admired them, not without a little feel¬ 
ing of pride, for our last few voyages in the 
marsh had been rigorous ones. Indeed, the 
Veteran had spent almost half a day toiling 
over mud flats to reach a profitable shooting 
ground, but the rewards had proved well worth 
the labor. 
The afternoon before we bade good-bye to 
the “ole marsh” was overcast and brooding. 
Twilight came quickly and only for a moment 
did the west open, revealing a seam of pale, 
molten sky. Far up above the lake beach great 
wedges of canvasbacks and redheads could be 
seen drifting southward, now melting from 
sight, now reappearing and at length wandering 
into total obscurity. I thought they were the 
last wayfarers, and from a point on the island 
watched them disappear with a feeling of re¬ 
gret. But when the sky was once more left 
empty, a weird plaintive cry bore down from 
the east and steadily approached overhead. At 
first, look as hard as I might, I could see 
nothing. Then, against the clouds there came 
into sight what first appeared to be a curling 
whisp of grayish-white smoke, moving across 
the sky as though driven forward by unfelt 
winds. On and on it came, and ever with its 
advance the cries grew louder. Suddenly the 
delusion vanished and the swaying line re¬ 
solved itself into a legion of wild swans. 
Perhaps you have never listened to the world- 
old swan song descending thus from a frost¬ 
bitten sky on a raw November evening; but if 
you have done so, the memory no doubt has re¬ 
mained with you as something rare and exhila¬ 
rating, as a heroic bar of music or virile line of 
poetry, sustained by a mournful yet noble 
cadence. As this was the first time I had ever 
heard them at close range, I waited, curiously 
thrilled, until they passed by and their great 
laboring forms were swallowed in the dusk. 
Still their trumpetings continued to ebb back 
through the growing darkness. The sound was 
strangely impressive. At it went further away 
it seemed to come from another world, and a 
few minutes later as I walked up the island a 
faint honk, solemn and uncanny, reached my 
ears from far out over the lake. 
Shortly before breakfast the following morn¬ 
ing, while I was putting the finishing touches to 
a civilized garb, and packing canvas coats, rub¬ 
ber boots and those things that go to make, up 
the uncivilized one, I heard a commotion in 
the next room. Everybody seemed to be talk¬ 
ing at once and the various tones spoke of dis¬ 
aster. Loud above the others, yet with ap¬ 
palling calmness came the sound of Pete’s voice, 
saying, “I’m dead! What you t’ink? Some 
theeve have stol’n all our duck!” 
THE TOP RAIL. 
The present season and another matter which 
I will refer to further on remind me of one 
branch of outdoor recreation concerning which 
little is written. This is practice with a small 
rifle in spring when streams are high and there 
is much floating stuff to serve as targets/ Given 
an accurate .22 caliber rifle, a box of cartridges 
and an afternoon off, and I ask for no better 
amusement than to sit on a dry log alongside 
some isolated stream and practice at the many 
objects which drift past in the current. 
Of course it is first necessary to be sure that 
no house or person is in range, but then there 
are plenty of places where one can shoot all 
day without the remotest chance of unintention¬ 
ally bringing harm to any living thing. Bits 
of bark, pieces of wood, button balls from the 
sycamore, water rats, crows, turtles that line 
the shores in places—all furnish good practice 
and amusement at the same time. 
I am reminded of happy days passed in this 
fashion by a paragraph in the London Field, 
referring to the late W. J. Jeffery. It says of 
him, among other things: 
“For a man not actually reared in gun mak¬ 
ing circles he possessed a wonderful knowledge 
of all that appertained to the business. In rifles 
particularly he was acknowledged a capable 
specialist, and his ideas were based upon close 
practical study of marksmanship, above all with 
miniature rifles, which he delighted to shoot in 
unrestricted surroundings. His immense prac¬ 
tice made him a splendid shot, not only at still 
objects, but preferably at things in motion. His 
favorite marks were the thousand and one trifles 
that come swinging down a stream in active 
flow. As a game' shot he was also highly pro¬ 
ficient, and when to these are added the immense 
opportunities which his business afforded of 
pursuing intricate problems to their final end 
and purpose it will be understood that though 
making no claim to be deeply learned in ballistic 
science, in point of fact he possessed not only 
marvelous general knowledge, but considerable 
acquaintance with detail besides.” 
I have been criticized severely by target shoot¬ 
ers for claiming to have obtained any practical 
knowledge from just such haphazard shooting 
as this, but despite this I am certain that much 
more can be learned in this way than expert 
target shots will admit. Certainly the practice 
