92 
of an imposing precipice of clay, and with the 
healds of our sleeping bags under the protection of 
the overturned canoe, pass a very comfortable 
night. 
The prophetic correctness of the adage is 
confirmed at dawn, the morning is lowering and 
gray. A brisk breeze from out the east is driv¬ 
ing low scudding, murkey clouds to leeward, 
goading the broad waters off shore into angry 
columns of sweeping white capped surges. 
During breakfast a few drops of rain fall 
about us, and as we pack the canoe, we make all 
as snug as possible for wet and sloppy voyaging 
and with an early start hug the lee of the shore 
until we open up the cove beyond Morse’s Point, 
where we encounter the weather direct in our 
faces, with about two miles of open water to 
cross, before we can gain the thoroughfare be¬ 
tween Mackey Island and Great Marsh. The 
rain still holds off its threatening heavy down¬ 
pour and our crossing of the open cove sure 
proves some paddle plug, through a nasty chop 
with the canoe dancing and taking water over 
the bow continually; and it is with well earned 
relief that we enter the quiet waters of the 
Thoroughfare, winding its twisting length into 
the marsh. 
Montie’s first bang into a bunch of reed birds 
nets us five birds down, which we retrieve only 
after a diligent search amid the tall grass and 
wild rice of the marsh, after which our charges 
are directed into the flocks as they sail over the 
opening, gathering our kill from the water. Reed 
birds! Never had we seen them in such multi¬ 
tudes, getting up in clouds with the untimidness 
of the unhunted, swaying in clusters on the 
wild rice like unto bees in swarm. The natives, 
we learned later, term them rice-birds and never 
molest them, giving all their attention to the 
larger feathered game of the region. 
Far too soon, is our bag all that two legiti¬ 
mate sportsmen can employ on an outland cruise 
and our shooting is curtailed to single cracks 
at the rail, which we flush from time to time 
as we proceed. 
The Thoroughfare continues to narrow as we 
paddle on into the marsh, winding and curving 
between the tall growth of reeds, grass and 
wild rice, so high that by standing up in the 
canoe we are unable to see over or beyond them. 
We pass a number of cunningly wrought shoot¬ 
ing blinds, arranged to conceal the hunters of 
the web-footed winged creatures of the region, 
but find all vacant and meet on one; the one loath¬ 
some inhabitant of the place being the snakes, 
wriggling in the water amid the reeds and 
grasses. Ugly, short, thick serpents, who, as 
we near the marsh edges in rounding the bends, 
raise their hideous heads with jaws agape, as 
they hiss their repulsive defiance. God forbid 
that we should wantonly take the life of any of 
His creatures regardless; but these defiant rep¬ 
tiles, creening their threatening jaws above the 
low wales of the canoe, could not be passed 
unnoticed and we are obliged to blow the heads 
off of a number with our hard hitting, little 
shooting iron and break the necks of numerous 
others by blows with the paddles. 
Narrower and narrower the water passage be¬ 
comes and at one point we are obliged to remove 
a couple of planks, forming a low foot bridge to 
enable us to proceed, and shortly beyond we have 
our choice of different extremely narrow passage¬ 
FOREST AND STREAM 
ways. Our one little map that we have of the 
region, clearly shows an open waterway all the 
way through behind Mackey Island, so we push 
on, making headway by hauling on the tall, tough 
growths over sides, until finally the water, like 
the trail of a snipe, leaves the earth and goes 
up into the air. 
Like unto many other travelers in unfamiliar 
regions we find we have entered a cul-du-sac. 
Making our way afoot over the hummocks of the 
bog and swamp for a short distance further, we 
plainly see by the thin line of towering reeds 
where the thoroughfare once trended; but alas— 
“She were now closed to navigation.” A mile 
and a half over the sedges, extending in from the 
Sound was the other extremity of this dumb fool 
thing of a waterway. 
Retreat is the order, so back we go and to 
add to our vexation and discomfort a heavy 
shower pours its steeping substance upon us. 
Reaching the open cove again we rig up the mast 
and haul up the sail and away we go with the 
wind free, the canoe pitching down the wind and 
the following seas merrily racing after. The rain 
letting up somewhat, a thin sprinkle continues to 
fall and drives down with the wind and beats 
upon us resistlessly. Rounding the point at the 
mouth of the cove we trim in our sheet a bit 
and head down along the western shore of Mackey 
Island with the wind abeam to the next point of 
the island and on trimming in our sail, find our 
sailing is over for the time, as the wind is dead 
ahead; and tacking off shore, over the edge of 
the flats, courses that would carry us out on the 
turmoil of the deeper waters, was not to be en¬ 
tertained a second. We unship the mast and 
ply the paddles and later go ashore at a farm 
where we lay in a supply of fresh water from 
the old fashioned pole-well. We find no one at 
home, though the unvaried ticking of a clock 
greets us through the window of the living-room 
with the hands pointed to half past eleven. 
The going to Halfway point is sure some work, 
the moderate gale direct over the bow and the 
rain, spray and flying scud is in our faces until 
we reach the lee of the projecting headland where 
we finally beach the canoe and go ashore to have 
a look at the other side, as the waters just at 
the point are deep and the seas certainly agita¬ 
ted and ireful. 
Crossing the point afoot, we find the shallow 
spume-flicked waters of Bellows Bay, stretching 
its dreary aspect to the expanse of Great Marsh, 
beyond which, faintly discernible through the 
mist, the wooded promontory of Knotts Island 
looms dimly through the wind-driven rain, while 
to the South and East, Currituck Sound spreads 
its storm lashed expanse of irritated waters into 
the hazy space for miles. 
The prospects of voyaging in our little craft 
to the distant promontory is foreboding, the irate 
waters just off the point menacing, and our pres¬ 
ent landing swampy and impossible to locate upon. 
“Well! What yu’ goin’ to do about it?” 
* * * It’s but the grip to the blade, the blade 
to the stroke and the stroke to the flood; * * * 
A last cup to a steady hand and a true eye, lads, 
so let two cups be a voyager’s portion.” 
Our portion is a good tub full, which we take 
in the midst of it off the point, around which 
we encounter a more moderate sea with the gale 
on our starboard bow. Out in the Sound the 
heavy white capped billows are combing and 
breaking along the outer edge of the shoaling 
flats over which we paddle in from six inches to 
two feet of water, through a seething mass of 
agitated foam and spume. 
With the gale on our bow, the canoe seems 
possessed of a devil and with the utmost stubborn¬ 
ness endeavors to drift broadside on the shore, 
and gratefully we reach the eastern shores of the 
bay and in the shelter of the low bank of marsh, 
rest the paddles. A light rain is still thrashing 
over the exposed width of marsh land, where a 
collection of sad-eyed, raw-boned, hide-bound 
steers are striving for existence on a pasture of 
sparcely strewn grasses. Woefully they gaze on 
our intrusion as we rest and pitifully contemplate 
their cheerless range. 
Hunger is gnawing at our vitals as we labori¬ 
ously continue, until near the mouth of Indian 
Creek, an isolated dead pine at the extreme end of 
a low point attracts our paddling, and on landing 
we find a hard level clay floor that is inviting and 
spells “Eats.” 
The tent, we peg down with the upper edge 
supported by the three paddles and guyed out 
shelter fashion, which style of erecting our head 
cover gives us considerably more room, the snug 
lee of which protects us amply from the wind 
and rain, and behind the same, dinner prepara¬ 
tions proceed odorously. 
Reed-birds—Um! Never pluck reedies. Take 
their jackets off. With the little axe I chop off 
the heads, legs and wings of a big bunch of 
’em, and insert a small, sharp blade into their 
counters and rip the skin through clear to the 
end of their severed necks. With thumb and fore¬ 
fingers grasp them by the back, squeeze them and 
their little naked bodies pop out of their raiment. 
Draw it back and sever at the stern. Open them 
up the back, insert my thumb and they are drawn. 
I rinse each a bit and toss them into a pot of 
cold, salted water and hang the pot over the fire. 
When they come to a boil, I hang the pot near 
the edge of the fire to simmer, removing, from 
time to time, the scum that comes to the surface 
until it ceases to rise, then I pour off all the 
water and hang the pot high to allow them to 
steam dry. 
The backer is at hand, so the bottom of the 
pan I cover with thin slices of salt-pork, upon 
which I arrange a snugly fitting layer of the 
parboiled birds, breasts up, another layer of pork 
slices follows, graced by still another story of 
the avian morsels and deck the whole with nar¬ 
row ribbons of salt pork and slices of onion and 
put the pan into the oven and place the whole be¬ 
fore the glowing fire. 
What care we for storm! On our dreary ex¬ 
posed location, beneath the defense of our shelter¬ 
ing baloon silk, we dine as no urban efficiency and 
supervision is capable of competing with. To eat 
a reed bird you take him in your fingers, your 
lower teeth on one side of his breast, your upper 
on the other side—bite, and the most delicious 
morsel of -! !■—!—!—!!!—is fascinating your 
palate. Disregard what remains in your hand 
and take up another—“Help yourself, lad—for 
there is a plenty of ’em.” 
The wind flaps our shelter cloth, the rain beats 
its tattoo on our roof and the driven waters of 
the Sound knock at our portals; with mealy 
potatoes, juicy gravy, spongy biscuit, golden 
butter, fragrant coffee and finally steaming bowls 
(Continued on page 128.) 
